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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  WALSER  LIBRARY 

PRESENTED  AS  A  MEMORIAL 
BY  THE  CHILDREN  OF 

ZEB  VANCE  WALSER 

CLASS  OF  1884 

TRUSTEE  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY 

1895-  1932 


d>y  Stfew'*-- 


6P  * 


a  0,11/0. 


^w  ww«|Uvn-  r^  C.  • 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

00022094083 


£AB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS 


frontispiece. 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS 


* 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/rabhisfriendsbrownphil 


CONTENTS. 


MOM 

UAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS  .  .       f 

MARJORIE   FLEMING  -  •     4} 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAJI     .  •   lOO, 

HER  LAST  HALF-CROWN         .  •  .  .  I3I 

OUR  DOGS I39 

QUEEN   MARY'S  CHILD-GARDEN     •  .  •  l8g 


696714 


Rab  and  his  Friends. 


Four-and-thirty  years  ag-o,  Bob  Ains- 
rie  and  I  'were  coming  up  Infirmary 
Street  from  the  Edinburgh  High  School 
our  heads  together,  and  our  arms  inter- 
twisted, as  only  lovers  and  boys  know 
how,  or  why. 

When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street, 
and  turned  north,  we  espied  a  crowd 
at  the  Tron  Church.  "  A  dog-fight !  " 
shouted  Bob,  and  was  off ;  and  so  was  I, 
both  of  us  all  but  praying  that  it  might 
not  be  over  before  we  got  up  !  And 
is  not  this  boy-nature?  and  human 
nature  too  ?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a 
house  on  fire  not  to  be  out  before  we 
see  it  ?     Dogs  like  fighting  ;  old  Isaac 

7 


8  *Rat>  anD  bis  tfrienos. 

says  they  "delight"  in  it,  and  for 
the  best  of  all  reasons  ;  and  boys  are 
not  cruel  because  they  like  to  see  the 
fight.  They  see  three  of  the  great  car- 
dinal virtues  of  dog  or  man — courage, 
endurance,  and  skill — in  intense  ac- 
tion. This  is  very  different  from  a 
love  of  making  dogs  fight,  and  enjoy- 
ing, and  aggravating,  and  making  gain 
by  their  pluck.  A  boy,  be  he  ever  so 
fond  himself  of  fighting,  if  he  be  a 
good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all  this, 
but  he  would  have  run  off  with  Bob 
and  me  fast  enough  :  it  is  a  natural, 
and  a  not  wicked  interest,  that  all 
boys  and  men  have  in  witnessing 
intense  energy  in  action. 

Does  any  curious  and  finely  igno- 
rant woman  wish  to  know  how  Bob's 
eye  at  a  glance  announced  a  dog-fight 
to  his  brain  ?  He  did  not,  he  could 
not  see  the  dogs  fighting  ;  it  was  a  flash 
of   an   inference,    a    rapid   induction. 


•Kab  ano  bis  tfrtenos.  9 

The  crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs 
fighting  is  a  crowd  masculine  mainly, 
with  an  occasional  active,  compassion- 
ate woman,  fluttering  wildly  round 
the  outside,  and  using  her  tongue  and 
her  hands  freely  upon  the  men,  as 
so  many  "  brutes";  it  is  a  crowd, 
annular,  compact,  and  mobile  ;  a  crowd 
centripetal,  having  its  eyes  and  its 
heads  all  bent  downwards  and  inwards, 
to  one  common  focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it 
is  not  over  :  a  small,  thoroughbred, 
white  bull-terrier  is  busy  throttling  a 
large  shepherd's  dog,  unaccustomed  to 
war,  but  not  to  be  trifled  with.  They 
are  hard  at  it ;  the  scientific  little 
fellow  doing  his  work  in  great  style, 
his  pastoral  enemy  fighting  wildly,  but 
with  the  sharpest  of  teeth  and  a  great 
courage.  Science  and  breeding,  how- 
ever, soon  had  their  own  ;  the  Game 
Chicken,  as  the  premature  Bob  called 


io  TRab  anD  bis  ffrtenfcs. 

him,  working  his  way  up,  took  his  fina) 
grip  of  poor  Yarrow's  throat, — and  he 
lay  gasping  and  done  for.  His  master, 
a  brown,  handsome,  big  young  shep- 
herd from  Tweedsmuir,  would  have 
liked  to  have  knocked  down  any  man, 
would  "  drink  up  Esil,  or  eat  a  croco- 
dile," for  that  part,  if  he  had  a  chance  : 
it  was  no  use  kicking  the  little  dog ; 
that  would  only  make  him  hold  the 
closer.  Many  were  the  means  shouted 
out  in  mouthfuls,  of  the  best  possible 
ways  of  ending  it.  "  Water  !  "  but 
there  was  none  near,  and  many  cried 
for  it  who  might  have  got  it  from  the 
well  at  Blackfriars  Wynd.  "Bite  the 
tail !  "  and  a  large,  vague,  benevolent 
middle-aged  man,  more  desirous  than 
wise,  with  some  struggle  got  the 
bushy  end  of  Farrow's  tail  into  his 
ample  mouth,  and  bit  it  with  all  his 
might.  This  was  more  than  enough 
for  the  much-enduring,  much-perspiring 


TRab  ano  bis  ffrienos.  n 

shepherd,  who,  with  a  gleam  of  joy 
over  his  broad  visage,  delivered  a 
terrific  facer  upon  our  large,  vague, 
benevolent,  middle-aged  friend, — who 
went  down  like  a  shot. 

Still  the  Chicken  holds  ;  death  not 
far  off.  "Snuff!  a  pinch  of  snuff!" 
observed  a  calm,  highly-dressed  young 
buck,  with  an  eye-glass  in  his  eye. 
"Snuff,  indeed!"  growled  the  angry 
crowd,  affronted  and  glaring.  ' '  Snuff ! 
a  pinch  of  snuff  !  "  again  observes  the 
buck,  but  with  more  urgency  ;  whereon 
were  produced  several  open  boxes,  and 
from  a  mull  which  may  have  been  at 
Culloden,  he  took  a  pinch,  knelt  down, 
and  presented  it  to  the  nose  of  the 
Chicken.  The  laws  of  physiology  and 
of  snuff  take  their  course;  the  Chicken 
sneezes,  and  Yarrow  is  free ! 

The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off 
with  Yarrow  in  his  arms, — comforting 
him. 


12  TRab  anD  bfs  ffrienOs. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up, 
and  his  soul  unsatisfied ;  he  grips  the 
first  dog-  he  meets,  and  discovering  she 
is  not  a  dog,  in  Homeric  phrase,  he 
makes  a  brief  sort  of  amende,  and  is 
off.  The  boys,  with  Bob  and  me  at 
their  head,  are  after  him  :  down  Niddry 
Street  he  goes,  bent  on  mischief ;  up 
the  Cowgate  like  an  arrow, — Bob  and 
I,  and  our  small  men,  panting  behind. 

There  under  the  single  arch  of  the 
South  Bridge,  is  a  huge  mastiff,  saun- 
tering down  the  middle  of  the  cause- 
way, as  if  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  :  he  is  old,  gray,  brindled,  as 
big  as  a  little  Highland  bull,  and  has 
the  Shakespearian  dewlaps  shaking  as 
he  goes. 

The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him, 
and  fastens  on  his  throat.  To  our  as- 
tonishment, the  great  creature  does 
nothing  but  stand  still,  hold  himself 
up,  and  roar, — yes,  roar  ;  a  long,  sen- 


IRab  anD  bis  ffrtends.  13 

ous,  remonstrative  roar.  How  is  this  ? 
Bob  and  I  are  up  to  them.  He  is  muz- 
zled! The  bailies  had  proclaimed  a 
general  muzzling-,  and  his  master  study- 
ing strength  and  economy  mainly, 
had  encompassed  his  huge  jaws  in  a 
home-made  apparatus,  constructed  out 
of  the  leather  of  some  ancient  breechin. 
His  mouth  was  open  as  far  it  could  ; 
his  lips  curled  up  in  rage, — a  sort  of 
terrible  grin  ;  his  teeth  gleaming, 
ready,  from  out  the  darkness  ;  the 
strap  across  his  mouth  tense  as  a  bow- 
string ;  his  whole  frame  stiff  with  in- 
dignation and  surprise  ;  his  roar  ask- 
ing us  all  round,  "Did  you  ever  sep 
the  like  of  this  ?  "  He  looked  a  statue* 
of  anger  and  astonishment,  done  in 
Aberdeen  granite. 

We  soon  had  a  crowd  :  the  Chicken 
held  on.  "A  knife  i "  cried  Bob  ;  and 
a  cobbler  gave  him  his  knife :  you 
know  the  kind  of  knife,   worn  away 


i4  TRab  anD  bis  aFrienos. 

obliquely  to  a  point  and  always  keen. 
I  put  its  edge  to  the  tense  leather ;  it 
ran  before  it ;  and  then  ! — one  sudden 
jerk  of  that  enormous  head  a  sort  of 
dirty  mist  about  his  mouth,  no  noise, 
■ — and  the  bright  and  fierce  little  fellow 
is  dropped,  limp  and  dead.  A  solemn 
pause  :  this  was  more  than  any  of  us 
had  bargained  for.  I  turned  the  little 
fellow  over,  and  saw  he  was  quite 
dead  ;  the  mastiff  had  taken  him  by 
the  small  of  the  back  like  a  rat,  and 
broken  it. 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim 
appeased,  ashamed,  and  amazed  ; 
snuffed  him  all  over,  stared  at  him, 
and  taking  a  sudden  thought,  turned 
round  and  trotted  off.  Bob  took  the 
dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "John,  we'll 
bury  him  after  tea."  "Yes,"  said  I, 
and  was  off  after  the  mastiff.  He 
made  up  the  Cowgate  at  a  rapid 
swing  ;  he  had  forgotten  some  engage- 


IRab  anD  bis  ifrienDs.  15 

ment  He  turned  up  the  Candlemaker 
Row,  and  stopped  at  the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier  s  cart  ready  to 
start,  and  a  keen,  thin,  impatient, 
black-a-vised  little  man,  his  hand  at 
his  gray  horse's  head,  looking  about 
angrily  for  something. 

"  Rab,  ye  thief!"  said  he,  aiming 
a  kick  at  my  great  friend,  who  drew 
cringing  up,  and  avoiding  the  heavy 
shoe  with  more  agility  than  dignity, 
and  watching  his  master's  eye,  slunk 
dismayed  under  the  cart, — his  ears 
down,  and  as  much  as  he  had  of  tail 
down  too. 

What  a  man  this  must  be, — thought 
I, — to  whom  my  tremendous  hero 
turns  tail  !  The  carrier  saw  the  muz- 
zle hanging,  cut  and  useless,  from  his 
neck,  and  I  eagerly  told  him  the  story, 
which  Bob  and  I  always  thought,  and 
still  think,  Homer,  or  King  David,  or 
Sir  Walter  alone,   were  worthy  to  re* 


16  IRaD  anD  bis  tfrten&s. 

hearse.  The  severe  little  man  was 
mitigated,  and  condescended  to  say, 
*'  Rab,  my  man,  puir  Rabbie," — where- 
upon the  stump  of  a  tail  rose  up,  the 
ears  were  cocked,  the  eyes  filled,  and 
were  comforted ;  the  two  friends  were 
reconciled.  "Hupp!"  and  a  stroke 
of  the  whip  were  given  to  Jess  ;  and 
off  went  the  three. 

Bob  and  I  buried  the  Game  Chicken 
that  night  (we  had  not  much  of  a  tea) 
in  the  back-green  of  his  house  in  Mel- 
ville Street,  No.  17,  with  considerable 
gravity  and  silence  ;  and  being  at  the 
time  in  the  Iliad,  and,  like  all  boys, 
Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector,  of 
course. 


Six  years  have  passed, — a  long  time 
for  a  boy  and  a  dog  ;  Bob  Ainslie  is 
off  to    the    wars  :    I  am   a  medical 


TRab  an&  bis  fftienfcs.  17 

student,  and  clerk  at  Minto  House 
Hospital.  Rab  I  saw  almost  every 
week,  on  the  Wednesday  ;  and  we 
had  much  pleasant  intimacy.  I  found 
the  way  to  his  heart  by  frequent 
scratching  of  his  huge  head,  and  an 
occasional  bone.  When  I  did  not 
notice  him  he  would  plant  himself 
straight  before  me,  and  stand  wagging 
that  bud  of  a  tail,  and  looking  up,  with 
his  head  a  little  to  the  one  side.  His 
master  I  occasionally  saw  ;  he  used 
to  call  me  "  Maister  John,"  but  was 
laconic  as  any  Spartan. 

One  fine  October  afternoon,  I  was 
leaving  the  hospital,  when  I  saw  the 
large  gate  open,  and  in  walked  Rab, 
with  that  great  and  easy  saunter  of 
his.  He  looked  as  if  taking  general 
possession  of  the  place  ;  like  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city, 
satiated  with  victory  and  peace.  After 
him  came  Jess,  now  white  from  age, 


18  IRab  anD  bis  3fnenD6. 

with  her  cart  ;  and  in  it  a  woman,  care- 
fully wrapped  up, — the  carrier  leading 
the  horse  anxiously,  and  looking  back. 
When  he  saw  me,  James  (for  his  name 
was  James  Noble)  made  a  curt  and 
grotesque  "boo,"' and  said,  "Maistei 
John,  this  is  the  mistress  ;  she's  got 
trouble  in  her  breest, — some  kind  o'an 
income  we're  thinkin'." 

By  this  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face  ; 
she  was  sitting  on  a  sack  filled  with 
straw,  her  husband's  plaid  refund  her, 
and  his  big-coat,  with  its  large  white 
metal  buttons,  over  her  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgetable  face, 
— pale,  serious,  lonely,  *  delicate,  sweet, 
without  being  at  all  what  we  call  fine. 
She  looked  sixty,  and  had  on  a  mutch, 
white  as  snow,  with  its  black  ribbon  ; 
her  silvery,  smooth  hair  setting  off  her 

*  It  is  not  easy  giving  this  look  by  one  word  ; 
it  was  expressive  of  her  being  so  much  of  het 
life  alone. 


IRab  an&  bis  3fricnD6.  19 

dark-gray  eyes, — eyes  such  as  one  sees 
only  twice  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  full 
of  suffering,  full  also  of  the  overcoming 
of  it  :  her  eyebrows  black  and  del- 
icate, and  her  mouth  firm,  patient,  and 
contented,  which  few  mouths  ever 
are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more 
beautiful  countenance,  or  one  more 
subdued  to  settled  quiet.  ' '  Ailie, "  said 
James,  ''this  is  Maister  John,  the  young 
doctor ;  Rab's  freend,  ye  ken.  We 
often  speak  aboot  you,  doctor."  She 
smiled,  and  made  a  movement,  but 
said  nothing  ;  and  prepared  to  come 
down,  putting  her  plaid  aside  and  rising. 
Had  Solomon,  in  ail  his  glory,  been 
handing  down  the  Queen  of  Sheba  at 
his  palace  gate,  he  could  not  have  done 
it  more  daintily,  more  tenderly,  more 
like  a  gentleman,  than  did  James  the 
Howgate  carrier,  when  he  lifted  down 

Ailie   his   wife.     The   contrast   of  his 
2 


2o  *Kat>  anD  bis  ffrienfcs. 

small,  swarthy,  weather-beaten,  keen, 
worldly  face  to  hers — pale,  subdued, 
and  beautiful — was  something  wonder- 
ful. Rab  looked  on  concerned  and 
puzzled,  but  ready  for  anything  that 
/light  turn  up, — were  it  to  strangle  the 
nurse,  the  porter,  or  even  me.  Ailie 
and  he  seemed  great  friends. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  she's  got  a  kind 
o'  trouble  in  her  breest,  doctor ;  wull 
ye  tak'  a  look  at  it  ? "  We  walked  into 
the  consulting-room,  all  four  ;  Rab 
grim  and  comic,  willing  to  be  happy 
and  confidential  if  cause  could  be 
shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse, 
on  the  same  terms.  Ailie  sat  down, 
undid  her  open  gown  and  her  lawn 
handkerchief  round  her  neck,  and  with- 
out a  word  showed  me  her  right  breast. 
I  looked  at  and  examined  it  carefully, 
— she  and  James  watching  me,  and 
Rab  eying  all  three.  What  could  I 
say?  there  it  was,  that  had  once  beep 


"ftab  and  bte  3FrienD3.  21 

so  soft,  so  shapely,  so  white,  so  gra- 
cious and  bountiful,  so  "full  of  all 
blessed  conditions," — hard  as  a  stone, 
a  centre  of  horrid  pain,  making-  that 
pale  face,  with  its  gray,  lucid,  reason- 
able eyes,  and  its  sweet,  resolved 
mouth,  express  the  full  measure  of 
suffering  overcome.  Why  was  that 
gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean 
and  lovable,  condemned  by  God  to 
bear  such  a  burden  ? 

I  got  her  away  to  bed.  "  May  Rab 
and  me  bide?"  said  James.  "You 
may  ;  and  Rab,  if  he  will  behave  him- 
self." "  I  'se  warrant  he  's  do  that, 
doctor  n  ;  and  in  slank  the  faithful 
beast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
him.  There  are  no  such  dogs  now. 
He  belonged  to  a  lost  tribe.  As  I  have 
said,  he  was  brindled  and  gray  like 
P.ubislaw  granite  ;  his  hair  short,  hard, 
and  close,  like  a  lion's  ;  his  body  thick 
set,  like  a  little  bull, — a  sort  of  com 


?2  *&ab  and  bis  afrienos. 

pressed  Hercules  of  a  dog.  He  must 
have  been  ninety  pounds'  weight,  at 
the  least ;  he  had  a  large  blunt  head  ; 
his  muzzle  black  as  night,  his  mouth 
blacker  than  any  night,  a  tooth  or  two 
—being  all  he  had — gleaming  out  of 
his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head  was 
scarred  with  the  records  of  old  wounds, 
a  sort  of  series  of  fields  of  battle  all 
over  it  ;  one  eye  out,  one  ear  cropped 
as  close  as  was  Archbishop  Leighton's 
father  s  ;  the  remaining  eye  had  the 
power  of  two  ;  and  above  it,  and  in 
constant  communication  with  it,  was  a 
tattered  rag  of  an  ear,  which  was  for- 
ever unfurling  itself,  like  an  old  flag  ; 
and  then  that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one 
inch  long,  if  it  could  in  any  sense  be 
said  to  be  long,  being  as  broad  as  long, 
— the  mobility,  the  instantaneousness 
of  that  bud  were  very  funny  and 
surprising,  and  its  expressive  twink- 
lings and  winkings,  the  intercommuni* 


IRab  anfc  bis  3FuenDs,  23 

cations  between  the  eye,  the  ear,  and  it, 
were  of  the  oddest  and  swiftest. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity 
of  great  size ;  and  having  fought  his 
way  all  along  the  road  to  absolute 
supremacy,  he  was  as  mighty  in  his 
own  line  as  Julius  Caesar  or  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity  *  of 
all  great  fighters. 

You  must  have  often  observed  the 
likeness  of  certain  men  to  certain 
animals,  and  of  certain  dogs  to  men. 
Now,  I  never  looked  at  Rab  without 
Thinking  of  the  great  Baptist  preacher, 
Andrew    Fuller,  f       The    same    large, 

*  A  Highland  game-keeper,  when  asked  why 
a  certain  terrier,  of  singular  pluck,  was  so  much 
more  solemn  than  the  other  dogs,  said,  "  O,  sir, 
life  's  full  o'  sairiousness  to  him, — he  just  never 
can  get  enuff  o'  fechtin'." 

t  Fuller  was,  in  early  life,  when  a  farmer  lad 
at  Soham,  famous  as  a  boxer;  not  quarrelsome, 
but  not  without  "the  stern  delight "  a  man  of 
strength  and  courage  feels  in  their  exercise.     Dr. 


24  IRab  an&  bis  3fnenfcs, 

heavy,  menacing,  combative,  sombre, 
honest  countenance,  the  same  deep 
inevitable  eye,  the  same  look, — as  of 
thunder  asleep,  but  ready, — neither  a 
dog  nor  a  man  to  be  trifled  with. 

Next  day,  my  master,  the  surgeon, 
examined  Ailie.  There  was  no  doubt 
it  must  kill  her,  and  soon.  It  could 
be  removed — it  might  never  return — it 
would  give  her  speedy  relief — she 
should  have  it  done.     She  courtesied, 


Charles  Stewart,  of  Dunearn,  whose  rare  gifts 
and  graces  as  a  physician,  a  divine,  a  scholar, 
and  a  gentleman  live  only  in  the  memory  of 
those  few  who  knew  and  survive  him,  liked  to 
tell  how  Mr.  Fuller  used  to  say.  that  when  he 
was  in  the  pulpit,  and  saw  a  bicirdly  man  come 
along  the  passage,  he  would  instinctively  draw 
himself  up,  measure  his  imaginary  antagonist, 
and  forecast  how  he  would  deal  with  him,  his 
hands  meanwhile  condensing  into  fists,  and 
tending  to  "  square."  He  must  have  been  a 
hard  hitter  if  he  boxed  as  he  preached, — what 
**  The  Fancy-''  would  call  "  an  ugly  customer." 


1Rab  an£>  bis  tfrfenos.  25 

looked  at  James,  and  said,  "When  ?  " 
"To-morrow,''  said  the  kind  surgeon, 
— a  man  of  few  words.  She  and 
James  and  Rab  and  I  retired.  I 
noticed  that  he  and  she  spoke  little, 
but  seemed  to  anticipate  everything 
in  each  other.  The  following  day,  at 
noon,  the  students  came  in,  hurrying 
up  the  great  stair.  At  the  first  landing- 
place,  on  a  small,  well-known  black- 
board, was  a  bit  of  paper  fastened  by 
wafers,  and  many  remains  of  old 
wafers  beside  it.  On  the  paper  were 
the  words,  —  "An  operation  to-day. 
J.  B.  Clerk:' 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure 
good  places  :  in  they  crowded,  full  of 
interest  and  talk.  "  What's  the  case  ?  " 
"Which  side  is  it?" 

Don't  think  them  heartless  ;  they 
are  neither  better  nor  worse  than  you 
or  I ;  they  get  over  their  professional 
horrors,  and  into  their  proper  work,— 


26  IRab  anD  bis  aFrienDs. 

and  in  them  pity,  as  an  emotion,  end' 
ing  in  itself  or  at  best  in  tears  and  a 
long-drawn  breath,  lessens,  while  pity 
as  a  motive  is  quickened,  and  gains 
power  and  purpose.  It  is  well  foi 
poor  human  nature  that  it  is  so. 

The  operating  theatre  is  crowded ; 
much  talk  and  fun,  and  all  the  cor- 
diality and  stir  of  youth.  The  surgeon 
with  his  staff  of  assistants  is  there.  In 
comes  Ailie  :  one  look  at  her  quiets 
and  abates  the  eager  students.  That 
beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for 
them  ;  they  sit  down,  and  are  dumb, 
and  gaze  at  her.  These  rough  boys 
feel  the  power  of  her  presence.  Sho 
walks  in  quickly,  but  without  haste ; 
dressed  in  her  mutch,  her  neckerchief, 
her  white  dimity  short-gown,  her 
black  bombazine  petticoat,  showing 
her  white  worsted  stockings  and  her 
carpet-shoes.  Behind  her  was  James 
with  Rab.     James  sat  down  in  the  dis- 


•ftab  anD  bis  afrienfcs.  2; 

tance,  and  took  that  huge  and  noble 
head  between  his  knees.  Rab  looked 
perplexed  and  dangerous  ;  forever 
cocking  his  ear  and  dropping  it  as  fast 
Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid 
herself  on  the  table,  as  her  friend  the 
surgeon  told  her  ;  arranged  herself, 
gave  a  rapid  look  at  James,  shut  her 
eyes,  rested  herself  on  me,  and  took 
my  hand.  The  operation  was  at  once 
begun  ;  it  was  necessarily  slow  ;  and 
chloroform — one  of  God's  best  gifts  tc 
his  suffering  children — was  then  un- 
known. The  surgeon  did  his  work. 
The  pale  face  showed  its  pain,  but 
was  still  and  silent.  Rab's  soul  was 
working  within  him  ;  he  saw  that 
something  strange  was  going  on, — 
blood  flowing  from  his  mistress,  and 
she  suffering ;  his  ragged  ear  was  up, 
and  importunate  ;  he  growled,  and 
gave  now  and  then  a  sharp,  impatient 
yelp  ;  he   would  have  liked   to  have 


28  IRab  anfc  bis  ffriertDs. 

done  something  to  that  man.  But 
James  had  him  firm,  and  gave  him  a 
glower  from  time  to  time,  and  an 
intimation  of  a  possible  kick  ; — all  the 
better  for  James,  it  kept  his  eye  and 
his  mind  off  Ailie. 

It  is  over :  she  is  dressed,  steps 
gently  and  decently  down  from  the 
table,  looks  for  James  ;  then  turning 
to  the  surgeon  and  the  students,  she 
courtesies, — and  in  a  low,  clear  voice, 
begs  their  pardon  if  she  has  behaved 
ill.  The  students — all  of  us — wept 
like  children  ;  the  surgeon  happed  her 
up  carefully, — and,  resting  on  James 
and  me,  Ailie  went  to  her  room,  Rab 
following.  We  put  her  to  bed.  James 
took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  crammed  with 
tackets,  heel-capt  and  toe-capt,  and 
put  them  carefully  under  the  table  say- 
ing, "  Maister  John,  I'm  for  nane  o* 
yer  strynge  nurse  bodies  for  Ailie.  I'll 
be  her  nurse,  and  I'll  gang  aboot  on 


TCab  and  bis  tfrienDa.  29 

my  stockin'  soles  as  canny  as  pussy." 
And  so  he  did  ;  and  handy  and  clever, 
and  swift  and  tender  as  any  woman, 
was  that  horny-handed,  snell,  peremp- 
tory little  man.  Everything  she  got 
he  gave  her  :  he  seldom  slept ;  and 
often  I  saw  his  small,  shrewd  eyes  out 
of  the  darkness,  fixed  on  her.  As  be- 
fore, they  spoke  little. 

Rab  behaved  well,  never  moving, 
showing  us  how  meek  and  gentle  he 
could  be,  and  occasionally,  in  his 
sleep,  letting  us  know  that  he  was  de- 
molishing some  adversary.  He  took 
a  walk  with  me  every  day,  generally 
to  the  Candlemaker  Row  ;  but  he  was 
sombre  and  mild  ;  declined  doing 
battle,  though  some  fit  cases  offered, 
and  indeed  submitted  to  sundry  indig- 
nities ;  and  was  always  very  ready  to 
turn,  and  came  faster  back,  and  trotted 
up  the  stair  with  much  lightness,  and 
went  straight  to  that  door. 


30  TRab  ano  bis  SFtfenDs. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with 
her  weather-worn  cart,  to  Howgate, 
and  had  doubtless  her  own  dim  and 
placid  meditations  and  confusions,  on 
the  absence  of  her  master  and  Rab, 
and  her  unnatural  freedom  from  the 
road  and  her  cart. 

For  some  days  Ailie  did  well.  The 
wound  healed  ' '  by  the  first  intention  "  ; 
for,  as  James  said,  "  Oor  Ailie's  skin  is 
ower  clean  to  beil."  The  students 
came  in  quiet  and  anxious,  and  sur- 
rounded her  bed.  She  said  she  liked 
to  see  their  young,  honest  faces.  The 
surgeon  dressed  her,  and  spoke  to  her 
in  his  own  short,  kind  way,  pitying 
her  through  his  eyes,  Rab  and  James 
outside  the  circle, — Rab  being  now 
reconciled,  and  even  cordial,  and  hav- 
ing made  up  his  mind  that  as  yet 
nobody  required  worrying,  but,  as  you 
may  suppose,  semper  paratus. 

So  far  well  :  but,  four  days  after  the 


•Rab  anD  bis  ffrfenDs.  31 

operation,  my  patient  had  a  sudden  and 
long  shivering,  a  "  groosin',"  as  she 
called  it.  I  saw  her  soon  after  ;  her 
eyes  were  too  bright,  her  cheek  col- 
ored ;  she  was  restless,  and  ashamed 
of  being  so  ;  the  balance  was  lost  ; 
mischief  had  begun.  On  looking  at 
the  wound,  a  blush  of  red  told  the 
secret  :  her  pulse  was  rapid,  her  breath- 
ing anxious  and  quick,  she  was  n't 
herself,  as  she  said,  and  was  vexed  at 
her  restlessness.  We  tried  what  we 
could.  James  did  everything,  was 
everywhere  ;  never  in  the  way,  never 
out  of  it  ;  Rab  subsided  under  the  table 
into  a  dark  place,  and  was  motionless, 
all  but  his  eye,  which  followed  every 
one.  Ailie  got  worse  ;  began  to  wander 
in  her  mind,  gently  ;  was  more  demon- 
strative in  her  ways  to  James,  rapid 
in  her  questions,  and  sharp  at  times. 
He  was  vexed,  and  said,  "She  was 
never    that    way   afore  ;    no,    never."- 


32  IRab  anD  bis  3frienDs» 

For  a  time  she  knew  her  head  was 
wrong,  and  was  always  asking  our 
pardon, — the  dear,  gentle  old  woman  : 
then  delirium  set  in  strong,  without 
pause.  Her  brain  gave  way,  and 
then  came  that  terrible  spectacle, — 

'The   intellectual   power,   through    words   and 
things, 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way  " ; 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms, 
stopping  suddenly,  mingling  the 
Psalms  of  David  and  the  diviner  words 
of  his  Son  and  Lord  with  homely  odds 
and  ends  and  scraps  of  ballads. 

Nothing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense 
more  strangely  beautiful,  did  I  ever 
witness.  Her  tremulous,  rapid,  affec- 
tionate, eager  Scotch  voice, — the  swift, 
aimless,  bewildered  mind,  the  baffled 
utterance,  the  bright  and  perilous  eye  ; 
some  wild  words,  some  household 
cares,  something  for  James,  the  names 


IRab  anD  bis  jfrienDs.  33 

of  the  dead,  Rab  called  rapidly  and  in  a 
"  fremyt "  voice,  and  he  starting  up  sur- 
prised, and  slinking  off  as  if  he  were  to 
blame  somehow,  or  had  been  dream- 
ing he  heard ;  many  eager  questions  and 
beseechings  which  James  and  I  could 
make  nothing  of,  and  on  which  she 
seemed  to  set  her  all,  and  then  sink  back 
ununderstood  It  was  very  sad,  but 
better  than  many  things  that  are  not 
called  sad  James  hovered  about,  put 
out  and  miserable,  but  active  and  exact 
as  ever  ;  read  to  her,  when  there  was 
a  lull,  short  bits  from  the  Psalms,  prose 
and  metre,  chanting  the  latter  in  his 
own  rude  and  serious  way,  showing 
great  knowledge  of  the  fit  words, 
bearing  up  like  a  man,  and  doating 
over  her  as  his  "ain  Ailie."  "Ailie, 
ma  woman!"  "Ma  ain  bonnie  wee 
daw  tie !  n 

The  end  was  drawing  on  :  the  golden 
bowl  was  breaking  ;  the  silver  cord  was 


34  IRab  anD  bta  2rrienDs. 

fast  being  loosed,  — that  animula  blan* 
dula,  vagula,  hospes,  comesque,  was 
about  to  flee.  The  body  and  the  soul 
— companions  for  sixty  years — were 
being  sundered,  and  taking  leave.  She 
was  walking  alone  through  the  valley 
of  that  shadow  into  which  one  day  we 
must  all  enter — and  yet  she  was  not 
alone,  for  we  know  whose  rod  and  staff 
were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and, 
as  we  hoped,  asleep  ;  her  eyes  were 
shut.  We  put  down  the  gas,  and  sat 
watching  her.  Suddenly  she  sat  up  in 
bed,  and  taking  a  bedgown  which  was 
lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she  held  it  eagerly 
to  her  breast, — to  the  right  side.  We 
could  see  her  eyes  bright  with  a  sur- 
prising tenderness  and  joy,  bending 
over  this  bundle  of  clothes.  She  held 
it  as  a  woman  holds  her  sucking  child  ; 
opening  out  her  nightgown  impa- 
tiently, and  holding  it  close,  and  brood- 


IRab  anfc  bis  ffrtenfcs.  5. 

ing  over  it,  and  murmuring  foolish  little 
words,  as  over  one  whom  his  mother 
comforteth,  and  who  sucks  and  is 
satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  and  strange  to 
see  her  wasted  dying  look,  keen  and 
yet  vague, — her  immense  love. 

"Preserve  me!"  groaned  James, 
giving  way.  And  then  she  rocked  back 
and  forward,  as  if  to  make  it  sleep, 
hushing  it,  and  wasting  on  it  her  in- 
finite fondness.  "Wae'sme,  doctor; 
I  declare  she  's  thinkin'  it 's  that  bairn." 
"  What  bairn  ?  "  "  The  only  bairn  we 
ever  had  ;  our  wee  Mysie,  and  she's  in 
me  Kingdom,  forty  years  and  mair." 
It  was  plainly  true  :  the  pain  in  the 
breast,  telling  its  urgent  story  to  a  be- 
wildered, ruined  brain,  was  misread 
and  mistaken  ;  it  suggested  to  her  the 
uneasiness  of  abreast  full  of  milk,  and 
then  the  child  ;  and  so  again  once  more 
they  were  together,  and  she  had  her 
ain  wee  Mysie  in  her  bosom. 


36  IRab  anD  bis  jfriends. 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  rar> 
idly  :  the  delirium  left  her ;  but,  as  she 
whispered,  she  was  ''clean  silly"  ;  it 
was  the  lightening  before  the  final 
darkness.  After  having  for  some  time 
lain  still,  her  eyes  shut,  she  said, 
"James!"  He  came  close  to  her, 
and  lifting  up  her  calm,  clear,  beauti- 
ful eyes,  she  gare  him  a  long  look, 
turned  to  me  kindly  but  shortly,  looked 
for  Rab  but  could  not  see  him,  then 
turned  to  her  husband  again,  as  if  she 
would  never  leave  off  looking,  shut 
her  eyes,  and  composed  herself.  She 
lay  for  some  time  breathing  quick,  and 
passed  away  so  gently,  that  when  we 
thought  she  was  gone,  James,  in  his 
old-fashioned  way,  held  the  mirror  to 
her  face.  After  a  long  pause,  one 
small  spot  of  dimness  was  breathed 
out ;  it  vanished  away,  and  never 
returned,  leaving  the  blank  clear  dark- 
ness  of  the   mirror  without   a  stain. 


•fcab  anO  bte  ffrienoe.  37 

*'  What  is  our  life  ?  it  is  even  a  vapor, 
which  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and 
then  vanisheth  away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake 
and  motionless ;  he  came  forward 
beside  us  ;  Ailie's  hand,  which  James 
had  held,  was  hanging  down  ;  it  was 
soaked  with  his  tears ;  Rab  licked  it 
all  over  carefully,  looked  at  her,  and 
returned  to  his  place  under  the  table. 

James  and  I  sat,  I  don't  know  how 
long,  but  for  some  time, — saying  noth- 
ing :  he  started  up  abruptly,  and  with 
some  noise  went  to  the  table,  and 
putting  his  right  fore  and  middle  fingers 
each  into  a  shoe,  pulled  them  out, 
and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of  the 
leather  latchets,  and  muttering  in 
anger,  "I  never  did  the  like  o'  that 
afore  !  " 

I  believe  he  never  did;  nor  aftef 
cither.  "  Rab  !  "  he  said  roughly,  ar*f 
pointing  with  his  thumb  to  the  bottom 


$&  1Ra&  anD  bis  jfrtenos. 

of  the  bed.  Rab  leapt  up,  and  settled 
himself;  his  head  and  eye  to  the  dead 
face.  "Maister  John,  yell  wait  for 
me,"  said  the  carrier  ;  and  disappeared 
in  the  darkness,  thundering  downstairs 
in  his  heavy  shoes.  I  ran  to  a  front 
window  ;  there  he  was,  already  round 
the  house,  and  out  at  the  gate,  fleeing 
like  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not 
afraid  ;  so  I  sat  down  beside  Rab,  and 
being  wearied,  fell  asleep.  I  awoke 
from  a  sudden  noise  outside.  It  was 
November,  and  there  had  been  a  heavy 
fall  of  snow.  Rab  was  in  statu  quo  ; 
he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly 
knew  it,  but  never  moved.  I  looked 
out ;  and  there,  at  the  gate,  in  the  dim 
morning — for  the  sun  was  not  up — 
was  Jess  and  the  cart,  — a  cloud  of  steam 
rising  from  the  old  mare.  I  did  not 
see  James ;  he  was  already  at  the 
door,  and  came  up  the  stairs,  and  met 


*Rab  anfc  bt0  Jfrtcnfcs.  39 

me.  It  was  less  than  three  hours  since 
he  left,  and  he  must  have  posted  out — 
who  knows  how? — to  Howgate,  full 
nine  miles  off,  yoked  Jess,  and  driven 
her  astonished  into  town.  He  had  an 
armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming 
with  perspiration.  He  nodded  to  me, 
spread  out  on  the  floor  two  pairs  of 
clean  old  blankets  having  at  their 
corners,  "A.  G.,  1794,"  in  large  letters 
in  red  worsted.  These  were  the  initials 
of  Alison  Graeme,  and  James  may  have 
looked  in  at  her  from  without, — himself 
unseen  but  not  unthought  of, — w7hen 
he  was  "  wat,  wat,  and  weary,"  and 
after  having  walked  many  a  mile  over 
the  hills,  may  have  seen  her  sitting, 
while  "a'  the  lave  were  sleepin'"' ; 
and  by  the  firelight  working  her  name 
on  the  blankets,  for  her  ain  James's 
bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking 
his  wife  in  his  arms,  laid  her  in  the 


40  *Kab  and  bis  yrten&s. 

blankets,  and  happed  her  carefully  and 
firmly  up,  leaving-  the  face  uncovered  ; 
and  then  lifting  her,  he  nodded  again 
sharply  to  me,  and  with  a  resolved 
but  utterly  miserable  face  strode  along 
the  passage,  and  downstairs,  followed 
by  Rab.  I  followed  with  a  light ;  but 
he  did  n't  need  it.  I  went  out,  holding- 
stupidly  the  candle  in  my  hand  in  the 
calm  frosty  air ;  we  were  soon  at  the 
gate.  I  could  have  helped  him,  but  I 
saw  he  was  not  to  be  meddled  with, 
and  he  was  strong:,  and  did  not  need 
it.  He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as 
safely,  as  he  had  lifted  her  out  ten  days 
before, — as  tenderly  as  when  he  had 
her  first  in  his  arms  when  she  was 
only  "A.  G.," — sorted  her,  leaving 
that  beautiful  sealed  face  open  to  the 
heavens  ;  and  then  taking  Jess  by  the 
head,  he  moved  away.  He  did  not 
notice  me,  neither  did  Rab,  who  pre- 
sided behind  the  cart.     I  stood  till  they 


"Kab  anfc  bis  ffrienfcs,  4x 

passed  through  the  long  shadow  of  the 
College,  and  turned  up  Nicolson  Street 
I  heard  the  solitary  cart  sound  through 
the  streets,  and  die  away  and  come 
again  ;  and  I  returned,  thinking  of  that 
company  going  up  Libberton  Brae, 
then  along  Roslin  Muir,  the  morning 
light  touching  the  Pentlands  and  mak- 
ing them  like  on-looking  ghosts  ;  then 
down  the  hill  through  Auchindinny 
woods,  past  "haunted  Woodhouse- 
lee  "  ;  and  as  daybreak  came  sweeping 
up  the  bleak  Lammermuirs,  and  fell 
on  his  own  door,  the  company  would 
stop,  and  James  would  take  the  key, 
and  lift  Ailie  up  again,  laying  her  on 
her  own  bed,  and,  having  put  Jess  up, 
would  return  with  Rab  and  shut  the 
doo^. 

James  buried  his  wife,  with  his  neigh- 
bors mourning,  Rab  inspecting  the  sol- 
emnity from  a  distance.  It  was  snow, 
and  that  black  ragged  hole  would  look 


42  "RaD  ano  bis  tfcienos, 

strange  in  the  midst  of  the  swelling  spot- 
less cushion  of  white.  James  looked 
after  everything  ;  then  rather  suddenly- 
fell  ill,  and  took  to  bed ;  was  insen- 
sible when  the  doctor  came,  and  soon 
died.  A  sort  of  low  fever  was  prevail  - 
ingin  the  village,  and  his  want  of  sleep, 
his  exhaustion,  and  his  misery  made 
him  apt  to  take  it.  The  grave  was  not 
difficult  to  reopen.  A  fresh  fall  of  snow 
had  again  made  all  things  white  and 
smooth  ;  Rab  once  more  looked  on,  and 
slunk  home  to  the  stable. 

And  what  of  Rab  ?  I  asked  for  him 
next  week  at  the  new  carrier  who  got 
the  good-will  of  James's  business,  and 
was  now  master  of  Jess  and  her  cart. 
"How's  Rab?"  He  put  me  off,  and 
said  rather  rudely,  "  What's  your  busi- 
ness wi'  the  dowg?  "  I  was  not  to  be 
so  put  off.  "Where's  Rab?"  He, 
getting   confused  and  red,  and  inter* 


TCab  and  bte  ffrtenda.  43 

7ieddling  with  his  hair,  said,  "'Deed, 
sir.  Rab's  deid. "  "  Dead  !  what  did  he 
iie  of?  "  "  Weel,  sir,"  said  he,  getting 
tedder,  ''he  didna  exactly  dee  ;  he  was 
killed.  I  had  to  brain  him  wi*  a  rack- 
pin  ;  there  wasnae  doin' wi'  him.  He 
lay  ;r»  the  treviss  wi'  the  mear,  and 
wadna  come  oot.  I  tempit  him  wi' 
kail  and  meat,  but  he  wad  tak  naething, 
and  keepit  me  frae  feedin'  the  beast, 
and  he  was  aye  gur  gurrin',  and  grup 
gruppin'  me  by  the  legs.  I  was  laith 
to  make  awa  wi'  the  auld  dowg,  his  like 
wasna  atween  this  andThornhill, — but, 
'deed,  sir,  I  could  do  naething  else." 
I  believed  him.  Fit  end  for  Rab,  quick 
and  complete.  His  teeth  and  his  friends 
gone,  why  should  he  keep  the  peace, 
aad  be  civil? 


MARJORIE  FLEMING. 


Marjorie  Fleming. 


One  November  afternoon  in  1 8  io — the 
year  in  which  Waverley  was  resumed 
and  laid  aside  again,  to  be  finished  off, 
its  last  two  volumes  in  three  weeks,  and 
made  immortal  in  1814,  and  when  its 
author,  by  the  death  of  Lord  Melville, 
narrowly  escaped  getting-  a  civil  ap* 
pointment  in  India — three  men,  evi 
dently  lawyers,  might  have  been  seea 
escaping  like  school-boys  from  the  Par- 
liament House,  and  speeding  arm-in- 
arm down  Bank  Street  and  the  Mound, 
in  the  teeth  of  a  surly  blast  of  sleet. 

The  three  friends  sought  the  bield  of 
the  low  wall  old  Edinburgh  boys  re- 
member   well,    and   sometimes    miss 

47 


48  dfcarjoric  ffiemina. 

now,  as  they  struggle  with  the  stout 
west-wind. 

The  three  were  curiously  unlike  each 
other.  One,  "a.  little  man  of  feeble 
make,  who  would  be  unhappy  if  his 
pony  got  beyond  a  foot  pace,"  slight, 
with  "small,  elegant  features,  hectic 
cheek,  and  soft  hazel  eyes,  the  index  of 
the  quick,  sensitive  spirit  within,  as  if 
he  had  the  warm  heart  of  a  woman, 
her  genuine  enthusiasm,  and  some  of 
her  weaknesses."  Another,  as  unlike 
a  woman  as  a  man  can  be  ;  homely, 
almost  common,  in  look  and  figure  ;  his 
hat  and  his  coat,  and  indeed  his  entire 
covering,  worn  to  the  quick,  but  all 
of  the  best  material ;  what  redeemed 
him  from  vulgarity  and  meanness  were 
his  eyes,  deep  set,  heavily  thatched, 
keen,  hungry,  shrewd,  with  a  slumber-' 
ing  glow  far  in,  as  if  they  could  be 
dangerous  ;  a  man  to  care  nothing  for 
at  first  glance,  but  somehow  to  give  a 


d&atprie  jflemine..  49 

second  and  not-forgetting  look  at.  The 
third  was  the  biggest  of  the  three,  and 
though  lame,  nimble,  and  all  rough  and 
alive  with  power,  had  you  met  him  any- 
where else,  you  would  say  he  was  a 
Liddlesdale  store-farmer,  come  of  gen- 
tle blood  ;  "a  stout,  blunt  carle,"  as  he 
says  of  himself,  with  the  swing  and 
stride  and  the  eye  of  a  man  of  the  hills, 
— a  large,  sunny,  out-of-door  air  all 
about  him.  On  his  broad  and  some- 
what stooping  shoulders  was  set  that 
head  which,  with  Shakespeare's  and 
Bonaparte's,  is  the  best  known  in  all  the 
world. 

He  was  in  high  spirits,  keeping  his 
companions  and  himself  in  roars  of 
laughter,  and  every  now  and  then  seiz- 
ing them,  and  stopping,  that  they  might 
take  their  fill  of  the  fun  ;  there  they  sto<vl 
shaking  with  laughter,  "not  an  inch 
of  their  body  free  "  from  its  grip.  At 
George  Street  they  parted,  one  to  Rose 


50  dfcarjorte  Jflemins. 

Court,  behind  St.  Andrew's  Church,  one 
to  Albany  Street,  the  other,  our  big  and 
limping  friend,  to  Castle  Street. 

We  need  hardly  give  their  names. 
The  first  was  William  Erskine,  after- 
wards Lord  Kinnedder,  chased  out  of 
the  world  by  a  calumny,  killed  by  its 
foul  breath, — 

"  And  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a  strife, 
Slipped  in  a  moment  out  of  life." 

There  is  nothing  in  literature  more 
beautiful  or  pathetic  than  Scott's  love 
and  sorrow  for  this  friend  of  his  youth 
The  second  was  William  Clerk, — th< 
Darsie Latimer  oiRedgauntlet ; ' '  a  man, ' 
as  Scott  says,  "  of  the  most  acute  intel- 
lects and  powerful  apprehension/'  but 
of  more  powerful  indolence,  so  as  to 
leave  the  world  with  little  more  than 
the  report  of  what  he  might  have  been, 
— a  humorist  as  genuine,  though  not 
quite  so  savagely  Swiftian  as  his 
brother,  Lord  Eldin,  neither  of  whom 


rt&arjorie  Fleming.  51 

had  much  of  that  commonest  and  best 
of  all  the  humors,  called  good. 

The  third  we  all  know.  What  has 
he  not  done  for  every  one  of  us  ? 
Who  else  ever,  except  Shakespeare,  so 
diverted  mankind,  entertained  and 
entertains  a  world  so  liberally,  so 
wholesomely  ?  We  are  fain  to  say, 
not  even  Shakespeare,  for  his  is  some- 
thing deeper  than  diversion,  something 
higher  than  pleasure,  and  yet  who 
would  care  to  split  this  hair  ? 

Had  any  one  watched  him  closely 
before  and  after  the  parting,  what  a 
change  he  would  see  !  The  bright, 
broad  laugh,  the  shrewd,  jovial  word, 
the  man  of  the  Parliament  House  and  of 
the  world  ;  and  next  step,  moody,  the 
light  of  his  eye  withdrawn,  as  if  see- 
ing things  that  were  invisible  ;  his  shut 
mouth,  like  a  child's,  so  impressionable, 
so  innocent,  so  sad  ;  he  was  now  all 
within,  as  before  he  was  ail  without ; 
4 


52  dfcarjocie  Fleming. 

hence  his  brooding  look.  As  the  snow 
blattered  in  his  face,  he  muttered, 
"How  it  raves  ^nd  drifts!  On-ding 
o'  snaw, — ay,  that  's  the  word, — on- 
ding — "  He  was  now  at  his  own  door, 
"Castle  Street,  No.  39."  He  opened 
the  door,  and  went  straight  to  his  den  ; 
that  wondrous  workshop,  where,  in 
one  year,  1823,  when  he  was  fifty-two, 
he  wrote  Peveril  of  the  Peak,  Quentin 
Dunvard,  and  St.  Ronaris  Well,  besides 
much  else.  We  once  took  the  fore- 
most of  our  novelists,  the  greatest,  we 
would  say,  since  Scott,  into  this  room, 
and  could  not  but  mark  the  solemniz- 
ing effect  of  sitting  where  the  great 
magician  sat  so  often  and  so  long,  and 
looking  out  upon  that  little  shabby  bit 
of  sky  and  that  back  green,  where 
faithful  Camp  lies.* 

*  This  favorite  dog  "  died  about  January,  i8o<> 
and  was  buried  in  a  fine  moonlight  night  in  th* 
little  garden  behind  the  house  in  Castle  Street. 


d&arjorfe  flcming,  53 

He  sat  down  in  his  large  green 
morocco  elbow-chair,  drew  himself 
close  to  his  table,  and  glowered  and 
gloomed  at  his  writing  apparatus,  "a 
very  handsome  old  box,  richly  carved, 
lined  with  crimson  velvet,  and  con- 
taining ink-bottles,  taper-stand,  etc., 
in  silver,  the  whole  in  such  order,  that 
it  might  have  come  from  the  silver- 
smith's window  half  an  hour  before." 
He  took  out  his  paper,  then  starting 
up  angrily,  said,  "  '  Go  spin,  you  jade, 
go  spin.'     No,  d it,  it  won't  do, — 

'  My  spinnin'  wheel  is  auld  and  stiff 
The  rock  o't  wunna  stand,  sir, 
To  keep  the  temper-pin  in  tiff 
Employs  ower  aft  my  hand,  sir.' 

My  wife  tells  me  she  remembers  the  whole  family 
in  tears  about  the  grave  as  her  father  himself 
smoothed  the  turf  above  Camp,  with  the  sad- 
dest face  she  had  ever  seen.  He  had  been 
engaged  to  dine  abroad  that  day,  but  apologized, 
on  account  of  the  death  of  '  a  dear  old  friend.'  " 
— Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott. 


54  dfcarjorte  tfiemmg. 

I  am  off  the  fang.*  I  can  make  noth- 
*ng  of  Waverley  to-day  ;  I'll  awa'  to 
Marjorie.  Come  wi'  me,  Maida,  you 
Ihief. "  The  great  creature  rose  slowly, 
and  the  pair  were  off,  Scott  taking  a 
wiaud  (a  plaid)  with  him.  "White  as 
a  frosted  plum-cake,  by  jingo  !  "  said 
he,  when  he  got  to  the  street.  Maida 
gambolled  and  whisked  among  the 
snow,  and  his  master  strode  across  to 
Young  Street,  and  through  it  to  i  North 
Charlotte  Street,  to  the  house  of  hiis 
dear  friend,  Mrs.  William  Keith,  of 
Corstorphine  Hill,  niece  of  Mrs.  Keith, 
of  Ravelston,  of  whom  he  said  at  her 
death,  eight  years  after,  "Much  tra- 
dition, and  that  of  the  best,  has  died 
with  this  excellent  old  lady,  one  of 
the  few  persons  whose  spirits  and 
cleanliness   and  freshness  of  mind  and 

*  Applied  to  a  pump  when  it  is  dry,  *nd  its 
value  has  lost  its  "  fang " ;  from  the  German 
fangen  to  hold. 


flfcarjorte  jflemtng.  55 

l<ody    made    old    age    lovely   and    de- 
sirable." 

Sir  Walter  was  in  that  house  almost 
every  day,  and  had  a  key,  so  in  he  and 
the  hound  went,  shaking  themselves 
in  the  lobby.  "  Marjorie  !  Marjorie  !  " 
shouted  her  friend,  "  where  are  ye,  my 
bonnie  wee  croodlin'  doo  ? "  In  a 
moment  a  bright,  eager  child  of  seven 
was  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  kissing 
her  all  over.  Out  came  Mrs.  Keith. 
"Come  yer  ways  in,  Wattie."  "No, 
not  now.  I  am  going  to  take  Marjorie 
wi'  me,  and  you  may  come  to  your  tea 
in  Duncan  Roy's  sedan,  and  bring  the 
bairn  home  in  your  lap.  "  "  Tak'  Mar- 
jorie, and  it  on-ding  0  snow!"  said 
Mrs.  Keith.  He  said  to  himself,  "On- 
ding, — that's  odd, — that  is  the  very 
word."  "Hoot,  awa  !  look  here," 
and  he  displayed  the  corner  of  his  plaid, 
made  to  hold  lambs  (the  true  shepherd's 
plaid,  consisting  of  two  breadths  sewed 


56  dfcarjorie  ffiemtng. 

together,  and  uncut  at  one  end,  mak- 
ing- a  poke  or  cul  de  sac).  "  Tak'  yer 
lamb,"  said  she,  laughing-  at  the  con- 
trivance ;  and  so  the  Pet  was  first 
well  happit  up,  and  then  put,  laughing 
silently,  into  the  plaid  neuk,  and  the 
shepherd  strode  off  with  his  lamb, — 
Maida  gambolling  through  the  snow, 
and  running  races  in  her  mirth. 

Did  n't  he  face  "the  angry  airt," 
and  make  herbieldhis  bosom,  and  into 
his  own  room  with  her,  and  lock  the 
door,  and  out  with  the  warm,  rosy  little 
wifie,  who  took  it  all  with  great  com- 
posure !  There  the  two  remained  for 
three  or  more  hours,  making  the  house 
ring  with  their  laughter  ;  you  can  fancy 
the  big  man's  and  Maidie's  laugh. 
Having  made  the  fire  cheery,  he  set 
her  down  in  his  ample  chair,  and  stand- 
ing sheepishly  before  her,  began  to  say 
his  lesson,  which  happened  to  be,— 
'*  Ziccotty,  diccotty,   dock,  the  mouse 


dfcarjorie  Fleming.  57 

ran  up  the  clock,  the  clock  struck  wan, 
down  the  mouse  ran,ziccotty,  diccotty, 
dock. "'  This  done  repeatedly  till  she 
was  pleased,  she  gave  him  his  new 
lesson,  gravely  and  slowly,  timing  it 
upon  her  small  fingers, — he  saying  it 
after  her, — 

"  Wonery,  twoery,  tickery,  seven  ; 
Alibi,  crackaby,  ten,  and  eleven  ; 
Pin,  pan,  musky,  dan  ; 
Tweedle-ura,  twoddle-um, 
Twenty-wan  ;  eerie,  orie,  ourie, 
You,  are,  out." 

He  pretended  to  great  difficulty,  and 
she  rebuked  him  with  most  comical 
gravity,  treating  him  as  a  child.  He 
used  to  say  that  when  he  came  to  Alibi 
Crackaby  he  broke  down,  and  Pin-Pan, 
Musky-Dan,  Tweedle-um  Twoddle-um 
made  him  roar  with  laughter.  He 
said  Musky-Dan,  especially  was  beyond 
endurance,   bringing   up  an    Irishman 


58  dfcacjorte  jfleming. 

and  his  hat  fresh  from  the  Spice  Islands 
and  odoriferous  Ind  ;  she  getting  quite 
bitter  in  her  displeasure  at  his  ill-be- 
havior and  stupidness. 

Then  he  would  read  ballads  to  her 
in  his  own  glorious  way,  the  two  get- 
ting wild  with  excitement  over  Gil 
Morrice  or  the  Baron  of  Smailholm  ; 
and  he  would  take  her  on  his  knee, 
and  make  her  repeat  Constance's 
speeches  in  King  John,  till  he  swayed 
to  and  fro,  sobbing  his  fill.  Fancy  the 
gifted  little  creature,  like  one  possessed, 
repeating, — 

•*  For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears, 
Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of 

fears  ; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears  ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears.'* 

"  If  thou  that  bidst  me  be  content,  wert  grim. 
Ugly  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious—'* 


d&arjorfe  Fleming.  59 

Or,  drawing-  herself  up  "to  the  height 
of  her  great  argument," — 

■  I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud, 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout 
Here  I  and  sorrow  sit." 

Scott  used  to  say  that  he  was  amazed 
at  her  power  over  him,  saying  to  Mrs. 
Keith,  "She's  the  most  extraordinary 
creature  I  ever  met  with,  and  her 
repeating  of  Shakespeare  overpowers 
me  as  nothing  else  does." 

Thanks  to  the  unforgetting  sister  of. 
this  dear  child,  who  has  much  of  the 
sensibility  and  fun  of  her  who  has  been 
in  her  small  grave  these  fifty  and  more 
years,  we  have  now  before  us  the  letters 
and  journals  of  Pet  Marjorie, — before 
us  lies  and  gleams  her  rich  brown  hairr 
bright  and  sunny  as  if  yesterday's,  with 
the  words  on  the  paper,  "Cut  out  in 
her  last  illness,"  and  two  pictures  oi 
her  by  her  beloved  Isabella,  whom  she 


60  /toatjone  jflcmmg. 

worshipped  ;  there  are  the  faded  old 
scraps  of  paper,  hoarded  still,  ovei 
which  her  warm  breath  and  her  warm 
little  heaTt  had  poured  themselves  : 
there  is  the  old  water  mark,  "  Lin- 
gard,  1808."  The  two  portraits  are 
very  like  each  other,  but  plainly  done 
at  different  times  ;  it  is  a  chubby, 
healthy  face,  deep-set,  brooding  eyes, 
as  eager  to  tell  what  is  going  on  with- 
in as  to  gather  in  all  the  glories  from 
without  ;  quick  with  the  wonder  and 
the  pride  of  life  ;  they  are  eyes  that 
would  not  be  soon  satisfied  with  see- 
ing ;  eyes  that  would  devour  their 
object,  and  yet  childlike  and  fearless; 
and  that  is  a  mouth  that  will  not  be 
soon  satisfied  with  love  ;  it  has  a  curi- 
ous likeness  to  Scott's  own,  which  has 
always  appeared  to  us  his  sweetest, 
most  mobile  and  speaking  feature. 

There  she  is,  looking  straight  at  us 
as  she  did  at  him, — fearless  and  full  of 


/l&arjorie  Fleming.  61 

love,  passionate,  wild,  wilful,  fancy's 
child.  One  cannot  look  at  it  without 
thinking  of  Wordsworth's  lines  on 
poor  Hartley  Coleridge  : — 

*  O  blessed  vision,  happy  child  t 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 
I  thought  of  thee  with  many  fears, 
Of  what  might  be  thy  lot  in  future  years, 
I  thought  of  tim;s  when  Pain  might  be  thy 

guest, 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  * 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover  !  ne'er  at  rest, 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 
O,  too  industrious  folly ! 
O,  vain  and  causeless  melancholy ! 
Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite, 
Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight. 
Preserve  for  thee  by  individual  right 
A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown 

flock." 

And  we  can  imagine  Scott,  when  hold- 
ing his  warm,  plump  little  playfellow 
in  his  arms,  repeating  that  statelv 
friend's  lines  : — 


62  /karjorfe  Fleming. 

•*  Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild, 
And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her, 
T\  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes, 
And  feats  of  cunning;  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock  chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 
And,  as  a  fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone, 
Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered 

round, 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity, 
Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient ;  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society;  she  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs." 

But  we  will  let  her  disclose  herself, 
We  need  hardly  say  that  all  this  is  true, 
and  that  these  letters  are  as  really 
Marjories  as  was  this  light  brown  hair  ; 
indeed,  you  could  as  easily  fabricate  the 
one  as  the  other. 

There  was  an  old  servant,  Jeanie 
Robertson,  who  was  forty  years  in  her 
grandfather's  family.  Marjorie  Flem- 
ing, or,  as  she  is  called  in  the  letters, 


t 


^fcarjonc  #icmtnfl.  63 

and  by*  Sir  Walter,  Maidie,  was  the  last 
child  she  kept.  Jeanie's  wages  never 
exceeded  £$  a  year,  and,  when  she  left 
service,  she  had  saved  £\o.  She  was 
devotedly  attached  to  Maidie,  rather 
despising-  and  ill-using"  her  sister  Isa- 
bella, — a  beautiful  and  gentle  child. 
This  partiality  made  Maidie  apt  at 
times  to  domineer  over  Isabella.  "I 
mention  this  "  (writes  her  surviving  sis- 
ter) ''for  the  purpose  of  telling  you  an 
instance  of  Maidie's  generous  justice. 
When  only  five  years  old,  when  walk- 
ing in  Raith  grounds,  the  two  children 
had  run  on  before,  and  old  Jeanie  re- 
membered they  might  come  too  near 
a  dangerous  mill-lade.  She  called  to 
them  to  turn  back.  Maidie  heeded  her 
not,  rushed  all  the  faster  on,  and  fell, 
and  would  have  been  lost,  had  her  sis- 
ter not  pulled  her  back,  saving  her  life, 
but  tearing  her  clothes,  jeanie  flew  on 
Isabella  to  '  give  it  her'  for  spoiling  her 


64  flfcarjorie  ffUmina. 

favorite's  dress ;  Maidie  rushed  in  be- 
tween, crying  out,  'Pay  (whip)  Maidjie 
as  much  as  you  like,  and  I'll  not  say 
one  word  ;  but  touch  Isy,  and  I'll  roar 
like  a  bull  ! '  Years  after  Maidie  was 
resting  in  her  grave,  my  mother  used 
to  take  me  to  the  place,  and  told  the 
story  always  in  the  exact  same  words." 
This  Jeanie  must  have  been  a  charac- 
ter. She  took  great  pride  in  exhibiting 
Maidie's  brother  William's  Calvin istic 
acquirements,  when  nineteen  months 
old,  to  the  officers  of  a  militia  regi- 
ment then  quartered  in  Kirkcaldy. 
This  performance  was  so  amusing  that 
it  was  often  repeated,  and  the  little 
theologian  was  presented  by  them  with 
a  cap  and  feathers.  Jeanie's  glory  was 
"  putting  him  through  the  carritch " 
(catechism)  in  broad  Scotch,  beginning 
at  the  beginning  with,  "Wha  made 
ye,  ma  bonnie  man  ? "  For  the  cor- 
rectness of  this  and  the  three  next  re- 


/jfoarjorie  jflcming.  65 

plies  Jeanie  had  no  anxiety,  but  the 
lone  changed  to  menace,  and  the  closed 
nieve  (fist)  was  shaken  in  the  child's  face 
as  she  demanded,  "Of  what  are  you 
made?"  "Dirt,"  was  the  answer 
uniformly  given.  "  Wull  ye  never 
learn  to  say  dust,  ye  thrawn  deevil  ?  " 
with  a  cuff  from  the  open  hand,  was 
the  as  inevitable  rejoinder. 

Here  is  Maidie's  first  letter  before  she 
was  six.  The  spelling  unaltered,  and 
there  are  no  "  coramoes." 

"My  Dear  Isa, — I  now  sit  down 
to  answer  all  your  kind  and  beloved 
letters  which  you  was  so  good  as  to 
write  to  me.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  wrote  a  letter  in  my  Life.  There 
are  a  great  many  Girls  in  the  Square 
and  they  cry  just  like  a  pig  when  we 
are  under  the  painful  necessity  of  put- 
ting it  to  Death.  Miss  Potune  a  Lady 
of  my  acquaintance  praises  me  dread- 
fully.     I  repeated  something   out    of 


66  fl&arjorte  Fleming. 

Dean  Swift,  and  she  said  I  was  fit  foj 
the  stage,  and  you  may  think  I  was 
primmed  up  with  majestick  Pride,  but 
upon  my  word  I  felt  myselfe  turn  a  lit- 
tle birsay — birsay  is  a  word  which  is  a 
word  that  William  composed  which  is 
as  you  may  suppose  a  little  enraged. 
This  horrid  fat  simpliton  says  that 
my  Aunt  is  beautifull  which  is  intirely 
impossible  for  that  is  not  her  nat- 
ure. " 

What  a  peppery  little  pen  we  wield  I 
What  could  that  have  been  out  of 
the  Sardonic  Dean  ?  what  other  child 
of  that  age  would  have  used  "be- 
loved "  as  she  does  ?  This  power  of 
affection,  this  faculty  of  Moving,  and 
wild  hunger  to  be  beloved,  comes  out 
more  and  more.  She  perilled  her  all 
upon  it,  and  it  may  have  been  as  well 
— we  know,  indeed,  that  it  was  far 
better — for  her  that  this  wealth  of  love 
was    so   soon    withdrawn   to  its   one 


dfcarjoric  Fleming.  ^7 

only  infinite  Giver  and  Receiver.  This 
must  have  been  the  law  of  her  earthl)' 
life.  Love  was  indeed  ' '  her  Lord  and 
King  "  ;  and  it  was  perhaps  well  for 
her  that  she  found  so  soon  that  her 
and  our  only  Lord  and  King  himself  is 
Love. 

Here  are  bits  from  her  Diary  at  Brae- 
head  :  ' '  The  day  of  my  existence  here 
has  been  delightful  and  enchanting. 
On  Saturday  I  expected  no  less  than 
three  well  made  Bucks  the  names  of 
whom  is  here  advertised.  Mr.  Geo. 
Crakey  (Craigie),  and  Win,  Keith  and 
Jn.  Keith — the  first  is  the  funniest  of 
every  one  of  them.  Mr.  Crakey  and  I 
walked  to  Crakeyhall  (Craigiehall)  hand 
an  hand  in  Innocence  and  matitation 
(meditation)  sweet  thinking  on  the  kind 
Jove  which  flows  in  our  tender  hearted 
mind  which  is  overflowing  with  majes- 
tic pleasure  no  one  was  ever  so  polite  to 

me  in  the  whole  state  of  my  existence. 
5 


68  /katjone  Fleming. 

Mr.  Crakey  you  must  know  is  a  great 
Buck  and  pretty  good-looking. 

"I  am  at  Ravelston  enjoying  nat- 
ure's fresh  air.  The  birds  are  singing 
sweetly — the  calf  doth  frisk  and  nat- 
ure shows  her  glorious  face." 

Here  is  a  confession  :  "I  confess  I 
have  been  very  more  like  a  little  young 
divil  than  a  creature  for  when  Isabella 
went  up  stairs  to  teach  me  religion  and 
my  multiplication  and  to  be  good  and 
all  my  other  lessons  I  stamped  with  my 
foot  and  threw  my  new  hat  which  she 
had  made  on  the  ground  and  was  sulky 
and  was  dreadfully  passionate,  but  she 
never  whiped  me  but  said  Marjory  go 
into  another  room  and  think  what  a 
great  cnne  you  are  committing  letting 
your  temper  git  the  better  of  you.  But 
I  went  ~o  sulkily  that  the  Devil  got  the 
better  of  me  but  she  never  never  never 
whips  me  so  that  I  think  I  would  be 
the  better  of  it  and  the  next  time  that 


dfcarjoric  Fleming.  69 

I  behave  ill  I  think  she  should  do  it 

for  she  never  does  it Isabella 

has  given  me  praise  for  checking  my 
temper  for  I  was  sulky  even  when  she 
was  kneeling  an  hole  hour  teaching 
me  to  write.'' 

Our  poor  little  wifie,  she  has  no 
doubts  of  the  personality  of  the  Devil  ! 
"Yesterday  I  behave  extremely  ill  in 
God's  most  holy  church  for  I  would 
never  attend  myself  nor  let  Isabella 
attend  which  was  a  great  crime  for  she 
often,  often  tells  me  that  when  to  or 
three  are  geathered  together  God  is  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and  it  was  the  very 
same  Divil  that  tempted  Job  that 
tempted  me  I  am  sure  ;  but  he  resisted 
Satan  though  he  had  boils  and  many 
many  other  misfortunes  which  I  have 
escaped.  ...  I  am  now  going  to 
tell  you  the  horible  and  wretched 
plaege  (plague)  that  my  multiplication 
gives  me  you  can't  conceive  it  the  most 


;o  dfcarjocie  flemmtf. 

Devilish  thing  is  8  times  8  and  7  times 
7  it  is  what  nature  itself  cant  endure." 
This  is  delicious  ;  and  what  harm  is 
there  in  her  "Devilish"?  it  is  strong 
language  merely  ;  even  old  Rowland 
Hill  used  to  say  "he  grudged  the 
Devil  those  rough  and  ready  words/' 
"  I  walked  to  that  delightful  place 
Crakyhall  with  a  delightful  young  man 
beloved  by  all  his  friends  especially  by 
me  his  loveress,  but  I  must  not  talk 
any  more  about  him  for  Isa  said  it  is 
not  proper  for  to  speak  of  gentalmen 
but  I  will  never  forget  him  !  ....  I 
am  very  very  glad  that  satan  has  not 
given  me  boils  and  many  other  misfor- 
tunes— In  the  holy  bible  these  words  are 
written  that  the  Devil  goes  like  a  roar- 
ing lyon  in  search  of  his  pray  but  the 
lcrd  lets  us  escape  from  him  but  we  " 
(pauvre   petite/)    "do  not   strive    with 

this    awfull     Spirit To-day   I 

pronunced  a  word  which  should  never 


/fcarjoric  Fleming.  71 

come  out  of  a  lady's  lips  it  was 
That  I  called  John  a  Impudent  Bitch.  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  think  made  me  in 
so  bad  a  humor  is  I  got  one  or  two  of 
that  bad  bad  sina  (senna)  tea  to-day,'' 
— a  better  excuse  for  bad  humor  and 
bad    language    than  most. 

She  has  been  reading  the  Book  of 
Esther  :  "It  was  a  dreadful  thing  that 
Haman  was  hanged  on  the  very  gal- 
lows which  he  had  prepared  for  Mor- 
deca  to  hang  him  and  his  ten  sons 
thereon  and  it  was  very  wrong  and 
cruel  to  hang  his  sons  for  they  did  not 
commit  the  crime  ;  but  then  Jesus  was 
not  then  come  to  teach  us  to  be  merci- 
ful. "  This  is  wise  and  beautiful. — has 
upon  it  the  very  dew  of  youth  and  of 
holiness.  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes 
and  sucklings  He  perfects  his  praise. 

"This  is  Saturday  and  I  am  very 
glad  of  it  because  I  have  play  half 
the  Day  and  I  get  money  too  but  alas 


72  dfoarjorie  jfleming. 

1  owe  Isabella  4  pence,  for  I  am  finned 

2  pence  whenever  I  bite  my  nails. 
Isabella  is  teaching  me  to  make  simme 
colings  nots  of  interrigations  peorids 
commoes,  etc As  this  is  Sun- 
day I  will  meditate  upon  Senciable  and 
Religious  subjects.  First  I  should  be 
very  thankful  I  am  not  a  begger. " 

This  amount  of  meditation  and  thank- 
fulness seems  to  have  been  all  she  was 
able  for. 

' v  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  a  delight- 
full  place,  Braehead  by  name,  belong- 
ing to  Mrs.  Crraford,  where  there  is 
ducks  cocks  hens  bubblyjocks  2  dogs 
2  cats  and  swine  which  is  delightful. 
I  think  it  is  shocking  to  think  that  the 
dog  and  cat  should  bear  them  "  (this  is 
a  meditation  physiological),  "and they 
are  drowned  after  all.  I  would  rather 
have  a  man-dog  than  a  woman-dog, 
because  they  do  not  bear  like  women- 
dogs  ;  it  is  a  hard  case — it  is  shocking. 


flfcarjorie  Fleming.  73 

I  cam  here  to  enjoy  natures  delightful 
breath  it  is  sweeter  than  a  fial  (phial) 
of  rose  oil." 

Braehead  is  the  farm  the  historical 
jock  Howison  asked  and  got  from  our 
gay  James  the  Fifth,  "  the  gudeman  o' 
Ballengiech, "  as  a  reward  for  the  serv- 
ices of  his  flail  when  the  King  had  the 
worst  of  it  at  Cramond  Brig  with  the 
gypsies.  The  farm  is  unchanged  in 
size  from  that  time,  and  still  in  the  un- 
broken line  of  the  ready  and  victorious 
thrasher.  Braehead  is  held  on  the  con- 
dition of  the  possessor  being  ready  to 
present  the  King  with  a  ewer  and  basin 
to  wash  his  hands,  Jock  having  done 
this  for  his  unknown  king  after  the 
splore,  and  when  George  the  Fourth 
came  to  Edinburgh  this  ceremony  was 
performed  in  silver  at  Holyrood.  It  is 
a  lovely  neuk  this  Braehead,  preserved 
almost  as  it  was  two  hundred  years 
ago.     "Lot  and  his  wife,"  mentioned 


74  d&acjorie  fiemfttg, 

by  Maidie, — two  quaintly  cropped 
yew-trees, — still  thrive  ;  the  burn  runs 
as  it  did  in  her  time,  and  sings  the  same 
quiet  tune, — as  much  the  same  and  as 
different  as  Now  and  Then.  The  house 
full  of  old  family  relics  and  pictures, 
the  sun  shining-  on  them  through  the 
small  deep  windows  with  their  plate- 
glass  ;  and  there,  blinking  at  the  sun, 
and  chattering  contentedly,  is  a  parrot, 
that  might,  for  its  looks  of  eld,  have 
been  in  the  ark,  and  domineered  over 
and  deaved  the  dove.  Everything 
about  the  place  is  old  and  fresh. 

This  is  beautiful  :  "I  am  very  sorry 
to  say  that  I  forgot  God — that  is  to  say 
I  forgot  to  pray  to-day  and  Isabella 
told  me  that  I  should  be  thankful  that 
God  did  not  forget  me — if  he  did,  0 
what  become  of  me  if  I  was  in  danger 
and  God  not  friends  with  me — I  must 
go  to  unquenchable  fire  and  if  I  was 
tempted  to  sin — how   could  I  resist  it 


dfcarjoric  Fleming.  75 

O  no  I  will  never  do  it  again — no  no — • 
if  I  can  help  it."'  (Canny  wee  wifie  !  ) 
"My  religion  is  greatly  falling  off  be- 
cause I  dont  pray  with  so  much  atten- 
tion when  I  am  saying-  my  prayers,  and 
my  charecter  is  lost  among-  the  Brae- 
head  people.  I  hope  I  will  be  religious 
again — but  as  for  regaining  my  charec- 
ter I  despare  for  it. "  (Poor  little  "habit 
and  repute  "  !  ) 

Her  temper,  her  passion,  and  her 
"badness"  are  almost  daily  confessed 
and  deplored:  "I  will  never  again 
trust  to  my  own  power,  for  I  see  that  I 
cannot  be  good  without  God's  assist- 
ance— I  wi!l  not  trust  in  my  own  selfe, 
and  Isa's  health  will  be  quite  ruined  by 
me — it  will  indeed."  "  Isa  has  giving 
me  advice,  which  is,  that  when  I  feal 
Satan  beginning  to  tempt  me,  that  I 
flea  him  and  he  would  flea  me,"  "Re- 
morse is  the  worst  thing  to  bear,  and  I 
am  afraid  that  I  will  fall  a  marter  tou  * 


76  /fcarjorfe  Fleming. 

Poor  dear  little  sinner  ! — Here  comes 
the  world  again  :  "In  my  travels  I  met 
with  a  handsome  lad  named  Charles 
Balfour  Esq.,  and  from  him  I  got 
ofers  of  marage — offers  of  marage, 
did  I  say?  Nay  plenty  heard  me." 
A  fine  scent  for  "breach  of  prom- 
ise "  ! 

This  is  abrupt  and  strong:  "The 
Divil  is  curced  and  all  works.  'T  is  a 
fine  work  Newton  o?i  the  pro/ecies.  I 
wonder  if  there  is  another  book  ot 
poems  comes  near  the  Bible.  The  Divil 
always  girns  at  the  sight  of  the  Bible." 
"Miss  Potune :" (her  ' ' simpliton  " friend) 
"is  very  fat ;  she  pretends  to  be  very 
learned.  She  says  she  saw  a  stone 
that  dropt  from  the  skies  ;  but  she  is  a 
good  Cnristian."  Here  come  her 
views  on  church  government :  "An 
Annibabtist  is  a  thing  I  am  not  a  mem- 
ber of — I  am  a  Pisplekan  (Episcopalian) 
just  now,  and  "  (O  you  little  Laodicean 


rt&arjocic  tficmmg.  77 

and  Latitudinarian  !)  "  a  Prisbeteran  at 
Kirkcaldy!" — (Blandula  !  Vagula!  cot- 
lum  et  animum  mulas  qucc  trans  mare 
(i.  e.  trans  Bodotriam)-curris  /) — "my 
native  town. "  ' '  Sentiment  is  not  what 
I  am  acquainted  with  as  yet,  though- 1 
wish  it,  and  should  like  to  practice 
it"  (!)  "I  wish  I  had  a  great,  great 
deal  of  gratitude  in  my  heart,  in  all  my 
body. "  ' *  There  is  a  new  novel  publish- 
ed, named  Self-Control"  (Mrs.  Brun- 
ton's) — "a  very  good  maxim  forsooth* " 
This  is  shocking  :  "Yesterday  a  mar- 
fade  man,  named  Mr.  John  Balfour, 
Esq.,  offered  to  kiss  me,  and  offered 
to  marry  me,  though  the  man  "  (a  fine 
directness  this!)  "was  espused,  and 
his  wife  was  present  and  said  he  must 
ask  her  permission  ;  but  he  did  not.  I 
think  he  was  ashamed  and  confounded 
before  3  gentelman — Mr.  Jobson  and  2 
Mr.  Kings."  "Mr.  Ban  ester's  "  (Ban- 
nister's) "Budjet  is  to-night  ;  I  hopeat 


78  /fcarjorte  fieminQ. 

will  be  a  good  one.  A  great  many 
authors  have  expressed  themselves  t©o 
sentimentally."  You  are  right,  Mar* 
jorie.  "  A  Mr.  Burns  writes  a  beauti- 
ful song  on  Mr.  Cunhaming,  whose 
wife  desarted  him — truly  it  is  a  most 
beautiful  one."  "I  like  to  read  the 
Fabulous  historys,  about  the  histerys 
of  Robin,  Dickey,  flapsay,  and  Peccay, 
and  it  is  very  amusing,  for  some  were 
good  birds  and  others  bad.  but  reccay 
was  the  most  dutiful  and  obedient  tc 
her  parients. "  "Thomson  is  a  beau- 
tiful author,  and  Pope,  but  nothing  tc 
Shakespear,  of  which  I  have  a  little 
knolege.  Macbeth  is  a  pretty  compo- 
sition, but  awful  one. "  ' '  The  Newgatt 
Calender  is  very  instructive"  (!)  "A 
sailor  called  here  to  say  farewell  ,*  it 
must  be  dreadful  to  leave  his  native 
country  when  he  might  get  a  wife  ;  or 
perhaps  me,  for  I  love  him  very  much. 
But   O  I  forgot,  Isabella   forbid   me  10 


dfc:uierie  ^Icmirifl.  79 

apeak  about   love."     This  antiphlogis- 

tic  regimen  and  lesson  is  ill  to  learn 
by  our  Maidie,  for  here  she  sins  again  : 
"Love  is  a  very  papithatick  thing"  (it 
is  almost  a  pity  to  correct  this  into  pa- 
thetic), "as  well  as  troublesome  and 
tiresome — but  O  Isabella  forbid  me  to 
speak  of  it. "  Here  are  her  reflections 
on  a  pineapple  :  "I  think  the  price  of 
a  pine-apple  is  very  dear  :  it  is  a  whole 
bright  goulden  guinea,  that  might  have 
sustained  a  poor  family. "  Here  is  a  new 
vernal  simile  :  ' '  The  hedges  are  sprout- 
ing like  chicks  from  the  eggs  when 
they  are  newly  hatched  or,  as  the  vul- 
gar say,  clacked"  "Doctor  Swift's 
wo~ks  are  very  funny  ;  I  got  some  of 
them  by  heart. "  ' '  Moreheads  sermons 
are  I  hear  much  praised,  but  I  never 
read  sermons  of  any  kind  ;  but  I  read 
novelettes  and  my  Bible,  and  I  nevei 
forget  it.  or  my  prayers."  Bravo  Mar- 
iorie  ! 


80  /Bbarjorie  fflemtn0. 

She  seems  now,  when  still  about  six, 
to  have  broken  out  into  song  : — 

Ephibol  (Epigram  or  Epitaph — who  know 
which  ?)  on  my  dear  love  isabella. 

"  Here  lies  sweet  Isabell  in  bed, 
With  a  night-cap  on  her  head  ; 
Her  skin  is  soft,  her  face  is  fair, 
And  she  has  very  pretty  hair; 
She  and  I  in  bed  lies  nice, 
And  undisturbed  by  rats  or  mice; 
She  is  disgusted  with  Mr.  Worgan, 
Though  he  plays  upon  the  organ. 
Her  nails  are  neat,  her  teeth  are  white. 
Her  eyes  are  very,  very  bright ; 
In  a  conspicuous  town  she  lives, 
And  to  the  poor  her  money  gives: 
Here  ends  sweet  Isabella's  story, 
And  may  it  be  much  to  her  glory.*' 

Here  are  some  bits  at  random  :— » 

**  Of  summer  I  am  very  fond, 
And  love  to  bathe  into  a  pond ; 
The  look  of  sunshine  dies  away, 
And  will  not  let  me  out  to  play: 


/I&acjorie  ffleminfl.  81 

I  love  the  morning's  sun  to  spy 

Glittering  through  the  casement's  eye, 

The  rays  of  light  are  very  sweet, 

And  puts  away  the  taste  of  meat ; 

The  balmy  breeze  comes  down  from  heaven, 

And  makes  us  like  for  to  be  living." 

"The  casawary  is  an  curious  bird, 
and  so  is  the  gigantic  crane,  and  the 
pelican  of  the  wilderness,  whose  mouth 
holds  a  bucket  of  fish  and  water. 
Fighting  is  what  adies  is  not  qualy- 
fied  for,  they  would  not  make  a  good 
figure  in  battle  or  in  a  duel.  Alas  ! 
we  females  are  of  little  use  to  our 
country.  The  history  of  all  the  mal- 
contents as  ever  was  hnged  is  amus- 
ing." Still  harping  on  the  Newgate 
Calendar ! 

"  Braehead  is  extremely  pleasant  to 
me  by  the  companie  of  swine,  geese, 
cocks,  etc.,  and  they  are  the  delight 
of  my  soul." 

"  1  am  going  to  tell  you  of  a  melan- 


$>2  dfcarjonc  Fleming. 

choly  story.  A  young  turkie  of  2  01 
3  months  old,  would  you  believe  it, 
the  father  broke  its  leg,  and  he  killed 
another !  I  think  he  ought  to  be  trans- 
ported or  hanged. " 

"Queen  Street  is  a  very  gay  one, 
and  so  is  Princes  Street,  for  all  the  lads 
and  lasses,  besides  bucks  and  beggars, 
parade  there. " 

"I  should  like  to  see  a  play  very 
much,  for  I  never  saw  one  in  all  my 
life,  and  don't  believe  I  ever  shall  ; 
but  I  hope  I  can  be  content  without 
going  to  one.  I  can  be  quite  happy 
without  my  desire  being  granted.'' 

"  Some  days  ago  Isabella  had  a  ter- 
rible fit  of  the  toothake,  and  she 
walked  with  a  long  night-shift  at  dead 
of  night  like  a  ghost,  and  I  thought 
she  was  one.  She  prayed  for  nature's 
sweet  restorer — balmy  sleep — but  did 
not  get  it — a  ghostly  figure  indeed  she 
was,  enough  to  make  a  saint  tremble. 


/fcarjor.e  Fleming.  83 

It  made  me  quiver  and  shake  from 
top  to  toe.  Superstition  is  a  very 
mean  thing,  and  should  be  despised 
and  shunned." 

Here  is  her  weakness  and  her 
strength  again:  "In  the  love-novels 
all  the  heroines  are  very  desperate. 
Isabella  will  not  allow  me  to  speak 
about  lovers  and  heroins,  and  't  is  too 
refined  for  my  taste. "  ' '  Miss  Egward's 
(Edgeworth's)  tails  are  very  good, 
particularly  some  that  are  very  much 
adapted  for  youth  (!)  as  Laz  Lau- 
rance  and  Tarelton,  False  Keys,  etc. 
etc." 

"Tom  Jones  and  Grey's  Elegey  in  a 
country  churchyard  are  both  excellent, 
and  much  spoke  of  by  both  sex,  par- 
ticularly by  the  men."  Are  our  Mar- 
jories nowadays  better  or  worse  be- 
cause they  cannot  read  Tom  Jones 
unharmed  ?  More  better  than  worse  ; 
but  who  among  them  can  repeat  Gray's 
6 


S4  ifcarjorie  jfiemitid. 

Lines  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 
College  as  could  our  Maidie  ? 

Here  is  some  more  of  her  prattle  : 
"  I  went  into  Isabella's  bed  to  make 
her  smile  like  the  Genius  Demedicus  " 
(the  Venus  de  Medicis)  "or the  statute? 
in  an  Ancient  Greece,  but  she  fell 
asleep  in  my  very  face,  at  which  my 
anger  broke  forth,  so  that  I  awoke  her 
from  a  comfortable  nap.  All  was  now 
hushed  up  again,  but  again  my  anger 
burst  forth  at  her  biding  me  get  up." 

She  begins  thus  loftily, — 

"  Death  the  righteous  love  to  see. 
But  from  it  doth  the  wicked  flee," 

Then  suddenly  breaks  off  (as  if  with 

laughter), — 

*  I  am  sure  they  fly  as  fast  as  their  legs  can 
carry  them  I " 

**  There  is  x  filing  I  love  to  see, 
That  is  our  monkey  catch  a  flee." 


d&arjonc  iteming.  35 

•  I  love  in  Isa's  bed  to  lie, 
Oh,  such  a  joy  and  luxury  ! 
The  bottom  of  the  bed  1  sleep, 
And  with  great  care  within  I  creep  ; 
Oft  I  embrace  her  feet  of  lillys, 
But  she  has  goton  all  the  pillys. 
Her  neck  I  never  can  embrace, 
But  I  do  hug  her  feet  in  place. 

How  childish  and  yet  how  strong 
and  free  is  her  use  of  words  !  •  •  I  lay 
4it  the  foot  of  the  bed  because  Isabella 
said  I  disturbed  her  by  continial  fight- 
ing and  kicking,  but  I  was  very  dull, 
and  continially  at  work  reading-  the 
Arabian  Nights,  which  I  could  not 
have  done  if  I  had  slept  at  the  top.  I 
am  reading  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 
I  am  much  interested  in  the  fate  of 
poor,  poor  Emily. '" 

Here  is  one  of  her  swains  : — 

■  Very  soft  and  white  his  cheeks, 
His  hair  is  red,  and  grey  his  breeks  5 
His  tooth  is  like  the  daisy  fair, 
His  only  fault  is  in  his  hair." 


86  /Ubarjone  fieminQ. 

This  is  a  higher  flight  : — 

"Dedicated  to  Mrs.  H.  Crawford  by  th* 
Author,  M.  F. 

"  Three  turkeys  fair  their  last  have  breathed, 
And  now  this  world  forever  leaved; 
Their  father,  and  their  mother  too, 
They  sigh  and  weep  as  well  as  you  ; 
Indeed,  the  rats  their  bones  have  crunched, 
Into  eternity  theire  laanched. 
A  direful  death  indeed  they  had, 
As  wad  put  any  parent  mad; 
But  she  was  more  than  usual  calm, 
She  did  not  give  a  single  dam." 

This  last  word  is  saved  from  all  sin 
by  its  tender  age,  not  to  speak  of  the 
want  of  the  n.  We  fear.  "  she  "  is  the 
abandoned  mother,  in  spite  of  her 
previous  sighs  and  tears. 

"Isabella  says  when  we  pray  we 
should  pray  fervently,  and  not  rattel 
over  a  prayer — for  that  wre  are  kneeling 
at  the  footstool  of  our  Lord  and  Crea- 


flfcarjouie  jflemma.  87 

tor,  who  saves  us  from  eternal  damna- 
tion, and  from  unquestionable  fire  and 
brimston." 

She  has  a  long  poem  on  Mary  Queer 
of  Scots  : — 

"  Queen  Mary  was  much  loved  by  all, 
Both  by  the  great  and  by  the  small, 
But  hark  1   her  soul  to  heaven  doth  rise  t 
And  I  suppose  she  has  gained  a  prize— 
For  I  do  think  she  would  not  go 
Into  the  awful  place  below ; 
There  is  a  thing  that  I  must  tell, 
Elizabeth  went  to  fire  and  hell ; 
He  who  would  teach  her  to  be  civil, 
It  must  be  her  great  friend  the  divill" 

She  hits  off  Darnley  well  : — 

*  A  noble's  son,  a  handsome  lad, 
By  some  queer  way  or  other,  had 
Got  quite  the  better  of  her  heart, 
"With  him  she  always  talked  apart ; 
Silly  he  was,  but  very  fair, 
A  greater  buck  was  not  found  there.** 

*'  By  some  queer  way  or  other "  ;  it 


SS  Abarjorie  Fleming. 

not  this  the  general  case  and  the  mys 
tery,  young-  ladies  and  gentlemen  ? 
Goethe's  doctrine  of  "elective  affini 
ties  "  discovered  by  our  Pet  Maidie., 

Sonnet  to  a  Monkey. 

•  O  lively,  O  most  charming  pug 
Thy  graceful  air,  and  heavenly  mug; ; 
The  beauties  of  his  mind  do  shine, 
And  every  bit  is  shaped  and  fine. 
Your  teeth  are  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Your  a  great  buck,  your  a  great  beau  ; 
Your  eyes  are  of  so  nice  a  shape, 
More  like  a  Christian's  than  an  ape  ; 
Your  cheek  is  like  the  rose's  blume, 
Your  hair  is  like  the  raven's  plume  ; 
His  nose's  cast  is  of  the  Roman, 
He  is  a  very  pretty  woman. 
I  could  not  get  a  rhyme  for  Roman, 
So  was  obliged  to  call  him  woman." 

This  last  joke  is  good.  She  repeats 
It  when  writing  of  James  the  Seconri 
being  killed  at  Roxburgh  : 


Aarjoric  Fleming,  89 

**  He  was  killed  by  a  cannon  splinter, 
Quite  in  the  middle  of  the  winter ; 
Perhaps  it  was  not  at  that  time, 
But  I  can  get  no  other  rhyme !" 

Here  is  one  of  her  last  letters,  dated 
Kirkcaldy,  12th  October,  181 1.  You 
can  see  how  her  nature  is  deepening 
and  enriching  :  "  My  Dear  Mother, 
— You  will  think  that  I  entirely  forget 
you,  but  I  assure  you  that  you  are 
greatly  mistaken.  I  think  of  you 
always  and  often  sigh  to  think  of  the 
distance  between  us  two  loving  crea- 
tures of  nature.  We  have  regular 
hours  for  all  our  occupations  first  at 
7  o'clock  we  go  to  the  dancing  and 
come  home  at  8  we  then  read  our 
Bible  and  get  our  repeating  and  then 
play  till  ten  then  we  get  our  music  till 
11  when  we  get  our  writing  and  ac- 
counts we  sew  from  12  till  1  after 
which  I  get  my  gramer  and  then 
work  till  five.     At  7  we  come  and  knit 


go  d&arjotfe  Jflemfng. 

till  8  when  we  dont  go  to  the  dancing-. 
This  is  an  exact  description.  I  must 
take  a  hasty  farewell  to  her  whom  I 
love,  reverence  and  doat  on  and  who 
I  hope  thinks  the  same  of 

"  Marjory  Fleming. 

"P.  S. — An  old  pack  of  cards  (!) 
would  be  very  exeptible." 

This  other  is  a  month  earlier  :  "  My 
Dear  little  Mama, — I  was  truly  happy 
to  hear  that  you  were  all  well.  We 
are  surrounded  with  measles  at  present 
on  every  side,  for  the  Herons  got  it, 
and  Isabella  Heron  was  near  Death's 
Door,  and  one  night  her  father  lifted 
her  out  of  bed,  and  she  fell  down  as 
they  thought  lifeless.  Mr.  Heron  said, 
'That  lassie's  deed  noo' — 'I'm  no 
deed  yet/  She  then  threw  up  a  big 
worm  nine  inches  and  a  half  long.  I 
have  begun  dancing,  but  am  not  very 


d&arjorte  Fleming.  91 

fond  of  it,  for  the  boys  strikes  and 
mocks  me. — I  have  been  another  night 
at  the  dancing  ;  I  like  it  better.  I  will 
write  to  you  as  often  as  I  can  ;  but  I 
am  afraid  not  every  week.  I  long  for 
you  with  the  longings  of  a  child  to  em- 
brace  you — to  fold  you  in  my  arms.  1 
respect  you  with  all  the  respect  due  to  a 
mother.  You  dont  k?iow  how  I  love  you. 
So  I  shall  remain,  your  loving  child— 
M.  Fleming." 

What  rich  involution  of  love  in  the 
words  marked  !  Here  are  some  lines  to 
her  beloved  Isabella,  in  July,  18  n  : — 

"  There  is  a  thing  that  I  do  want, 
With  you  these  beauteous  walks  to  haunt* 
We  would  be  happy  if  you  would 
Try  to  come  over  if  you  could. 
Then  I  would  all  quite  happy  be 
Now  and  for  all  eternity, 
My  mother  is  so  very  sweet, 
And  checks  my  appetite  to  eat ; 


92  flfcarjouc  fleminQ. 

My  father  shows  us  what  to  d> ; 
But  O  I'm  sure  that  I  want  yo&. 
I  have  no  more  of  poetry; 
O  Isa  do  remember  me, 
And  try  to  love  your  Marjory.' 


In  a  letter  from  "  Isa  "  to 

"  Miss  Muff  Maidie  Marjory  Fleming, 
favored  by  Rare  Rear-Admiral  Fleming," 

she  says:  "I  long  much  to  see  you, 
and  talk  over  all  our  old  stories  to- 
gether, and  to  hear  you  read  and 
repeat.  I  am  pining  for  my  old  friend 
Cesario,  and  poor  Lear,  and  wicked 
Richard.  How  is  the  dear  Multiplica- 
tion table  going  on  ?  are  you  still  as 
much  attached  to  9  times  9  as  you 
used  to  be  ?  " 

But  this  dainty,  bright  thing  is  about 
to  flee, — to  come  "quick  to  con- 
fusion." The  measles  she  writes  of 
seized  her,  and  she  died  on   the   19th 


/I&arjoc;^  jfiemmg.  93 

of  December,  iSri.  The  day  before 
her  death,  Sunday,  she  sat  up  in  bed, 
worn  and  thin,  her  eye  gleaming  as 
with  the  light  of  a  coming  world,  and 
with  a  tremulous,  old  voice  repeated 
the  following  lines  by  Burns, — heavy 
with  the  shadow  of  death,  and  lit  with 
the  fantasy  of  the  judgment-seat, — the 
publicans  prayer  in  paraphrase  : — 

•*  Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
Some  drops  of  joy,  with  draughts  of   ill  be- 
tween, 
Some   gleams    of   sunshine   'mid   renewing 

storms. 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 
Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 

For  guilt,  for  guilt  my  terrors  are  in  arms  ; 
I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

**  Fain  would  I  say,  forgive  my  foul  offence. 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey; 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense 


94  jflDarjorle  Fleming. 

Again  I  might  forsake  fair  virtue's  way, 

Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray, 
Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man. 

Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan, 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to  tempta« 

tion  ran  ? 

•*  O  thou  great  Governor  of  all  below, 
If  I  might  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 
And  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea ; 
With  that  controlling  power  assist  even  me 
Those  headstrong  furious  passions  to  confine, 

For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed  line ; 
O  aid  me  with  thy  help,  Omnipotence  Divine." 

It  is  more  affecting  than  we  care  to 
say  to  read  her  mother's  and  Isabella 
Keith's  letters  written  immediately 
after  her  death.  Old  and  withered, 
tattered  and  pale,  they  are  now  :  but 
when  you  read  them,  how  quick,  how 
throbbing  with  life  and  love !  how 
rich  in  that  language  of  affection  which 


d&arione  Fleming.  95 

only  women,  and  Shakespeare,  and 
Luther  can  use. — that  power  of  detain- 
ing the  soul  over  the  beloved  object 
and  its  loss. 

"  K.  Philip  to  Constance. 

You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  chili 

Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  chilft 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  w-.tt 

me  ; 
Puts   on   his   pretty  looks,   repeats    hia 

words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  hia 

form. 
Then  I  have  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief.** 

What  variations  cannot  love  play  on 
this  one  string  ! 

In  her  first  letter  to  Miss  Keith,  Mrs* 
Fleming  says  of  her  dead  Maidie : 
"Never  did  I  behold  so  beautiful  an 
object.  It  resembled  the  finest  wax- 
work. There  was  in  the  countenance 
an     expression      of    sweetness     and 


$6  Aarjorie  Fleming. 

serenity  which  seemed  to  indicate  that 
the  pure  spirit  had  anticipated  the  joys 
of  heaven  ere  it  quitted  the  mortal 
frame.  To  tell  you  what  your  Maidie 
said  of  you  would  fill  volumes  ;  for  you 
was  the  constant  theme  of  her  dis- 
course, the  subject  of  her  thoughts, 
and  ruler  of  her  actions.  The  last 
time  she  mentioned  you  was  a  few 
hours  before  all  sense  save  that  of  suf- 
fering was  suspended,  when  she  said 
to  Dr.  Johnstone,  4  If  you  let  me  out 
at  the  New  Year,  I  will  be  quite  con- 
tented.' I  asked  what  made  her  so 
anxious  to  get  out  then.  '  I  want  to 
purchase  a  New  Year's  gift  for  Isa 
Keith  with  the  sixpence  you  gave  me 
for  being  patient  in  the  measles  ;  and 
I  would  like  to  choose  it  myself  I 
do  not  remember  her  speaking  after- 
wards, except  to  complain  of  her  head, 
till  just  before  she  expired,  when  she 
articulated,  '  O  mother  I  mother  !  "* 


Do  we  make  too  much  of  this  little 
child,  who  has  been  in  her  grave  in  Ab- 
botshall  Kirkyard  these  fifty  and  more 
years?  We  may  of  her  cleverness, — 
not  of  her  affectionateness,  her  nature. 
What  a  picture  the  animosa  infans  gives 
us  of  herself,  her  vivacity,  her  passion- 
ateness,  her  precocious  love-making, 
her  passion  for  nature,  for  swine,  for  all 
living  things,  her  reading,  her  turn  for 
expression,  her  satire,  her  frankness, 
her  little  sins  and  rages,  her  great  re- 
pentances !  We  don't  wonder  Wralter 
Scott  carried  her  off  in  the  neuk  of  his 
plaid,  and  played  himself  with  her  for 
hours. 

The  year  before  she  died,  when  in 
Edinburgh,  she  was  at  a  Twelfth  Night 
supper  at  Scott's  in  Castle  Street.  The 
company  had  all  come, — all  but  Mar- 
jorie.  Scott's  familiars,  whom  we  all 
know,  were  there,  — all  were  come  but 
Maijcrie  ;    and  all  were  dell  because 


98  flfcarjorie  Fleming. 

Scott  was  dull.  "Where's  that  bairn? 
what  can  have  come  over  her?  I'll 
go  myself  and  see."  And  he  was 
getting  up,  and  would  have  gone, 
when  the  bell  rang,  and  in  came 
Duncan  Roy  and  his  henchman  Tou- 
gald,  with  the  sedan-chair,  which  was 
brought  right  into  the  lobby,  and  its 
top  raised.  And  there,  in  its  darkness 
and  dingy  old  cloth,  sat  Maidie  in 
white,  her  eyes  gleaming,  and  Scott 
bending  over  her  in  ecstasy, — "hung 
over  her  enamored."  "Sit  ye  there, 
my  dautie,  till  they  all  see  you  "  ;  and 
forthwith  he  brought  them  all.  You 
can  fancy  the  scene.  And  he  lifted 
her  up  and  marched  to  his  seat  v,rith 
her  on  his  stout  shoulder,  and  set  her 
down  beside  him  ;  and  then  began  the 
night,  and  such  a  night !  Those  who 
knew  Scott  best  said  that  night  was 
never  equalled  ;  Maidie  and  he  were 
the   stars ;    and   she   gave  them  Con- 


/Sibarjortc  Fleming.  99 

stance's  speeches  and  Helvellyn,  the 
ballad  then  much  in  vogue,  and  all  her 
repertoire, — Scott  showing  her  off,  and 
being  ofttimes  rebuked  by  her  for  his 
intentional  blunders. 

We  are  indebted  for  the  following — 
and  our  readers  will  be  not  unwilling 
to  share  our  obligations — to  her  sister ; 
"Her  birth  was  15th  January,  1803; 
her  death,  19th  December,  181 1.  I 
take  this  from  her  Bibles.*  I  believe 
she  was  a  child  of  robust  health,  of 
much  vigor  of  body,  and  beautifully 
formed  arms,  and  until  her  last  illness, 
never  was  an  hour  in  bed.  She  was 
niece  to  Mrs.  Keith,  residing  in  No.  1 
North  Charlotte  Street,  who  was  not 
Mrs.  Murray  Keith,  although  very  inti- 

*  "  Her  Bible  is  before  me ;  a  pair,  as  then 

called ;  the  faded  marks  are  just  as  she  placed 

them.     There  is  one   at   David's  lament   over 

"Jonathan." 
7 


ioo  /fcarjorie  Fleming. 

mately  acquainted  with  that  old  lady. 
My  aunt  was  a  daughter  of  Mr.  James 
Rae,  surgeon,  and  married  the  younger 
son  of  old  Keith  of  Ravelstone.  Cors- 
torphine  Hill  belonged  to  my  aunt's 
husband  ;  and  his  eldest  son,  Sir  Alex- 
ander Keith,  succeeded  his  uncle  to 
both  Ravelstone  and  Dunnottar.  The 
Keiths  were  not  connected  by  relation- 
ship with  the  Howisons  of  Braehead  ; 
but  my  grandfather  and  grandmother 
(who  was),  a  daughter  of  Cant  of 
Thurston  and  Giles-Grange,  were  on 
the  most  intimate  footing  with  our  Mrs. 
Keith's  grandfather  and  grandmother; 
and  so 'it  has  been  for  three  generations, 
and  the  friendship  consummated  by  my 
cousin  William  Keith  marrying  Isabella 
Craufurd. 

"As  to  my  aunt  and  Scott,  they 
were  on  a  very  intimate  footing.  He. 
asked  my  aunt  to  be  godmother  tc 
his  eldest  daughter,  Sophia  Charlotte. 


Z&arjorfe  Fleming.  101 

I  had  a  copy  of  Miss  Edgeworth's 
'Rosamond,  and  Harry  and  Lucy' 
for  long,  which  was  '  a  gift  to  Marjorie 
from  Walter  Scott,'  probably  the  first 
edition  of  that  attractive  series,  for  it 
wanted  '  Frank,'  which  is  always  now 
published  as  part  of  the  series,  under 
the  title  of  Early  Lessons.  I  regret  to 
say  these  little  volumes  have  disap- 
peared. " 

"Sir  Walter  was  no  relation  of  Mar- 
jorie's,  but  of  the  Keiths,  through  the 
Swintons  ;  and,  like  Marjorie,  he  stayed 
much  at  Ravelstone  in  his  early  days, 
with  his  grand-aunt  Mrs.  Keith  ;  and 
it  was  while  seeing  him  there  as  a  boy, 
that  another  aunt  of  mine  composed, 
when  he  was  about  fourteen,  the  lines 
prognosticating  his  future  fame  that 
Lockhart  ascribes  in  his  Life  to  Mrs. 
Cockburn,  authoress  of  'The  Flowers 
cf  the  Forest ' : — 


102  /l&arjorie  jfiemmg. 

'Go  on,  dear  youth,  the  glorious  path  pursue 
Which  bounteous  Nature  kindly  smooths  fof 

you; 
Go  bid  the  seeds  her  hands  have  sown  arise, 
By  timely  culture,  to  their  native  skies  ; 
Go,  and  employ  the  poet's  heavenly  art, 
Not  merely  to  delight,  but  mend  the  heart.'' 

Mrs.  Keir  was  my  aunt's  name,  another 
of  Dr.  Rae's  daughters."  We  cannot 
better  end  than  in  words  from  this 
same  pen  :  "I  have  to  ask  you  to  for- 
give my  anxiety  in  gathering  up  the 
fragments  of  Marjories  last  days,  but 
I  have  an  almost  sacred  feeling  to  all 
that  pertains  to  her.  You  are  quite 
correct  in  stating  that  measles  were 
the  cause  of  her  death.  My  mother 
was  struck  by  the  patient  quietness 
manifested  by  Marjorie  during  this 
illness,  unlike  her  ardent,  impulsive 
nature  ;  but  love  and  poetic  feeling 
were  unquenched.  When  Dr.  John- 
stone   rewarded    her    submissiveness 


dfcarjorie  Fleming.  103 

vrith  a  sixpence,  the  request  speedily 
followed  that  she  might  get  out  ere 
New  Year's  day  came.  When  asked 
why  she  was  so  desirous  of  getting  out, 
she  immediately  rejoined,  'O,  I  am  so 
anxious  to  buy  something  with  my  six- 
pence for  my  dear  Isa  Keith. '  Again, 
when  lying  very  still,  her  mother  asked 
her  if  there  was  anything  she  wished  : 
'  O  yes  !  if  you  would  just  leave  the 
room  door  open  a  wee  bit,  and  play 
"The  Land  o'  the  Leal,"  and  I  will 
lie  and  think,  and  enjoy  myself  (this 
is  just  as  stated  to  me  by  her  mother 
and  mine).  Well,  the  happy  day  came, 
alike  to  parents  and  child,  when 
Marjorie  was  allowed  to  come  forth 
from  the  nursery  to  the  parlor.  It  was 
Sabbath  evening,  and  after  tea.  My 
father,  who  idolized  this  child,  and 
never  afterwards  in  my  hearing  men- 
tioned her  name,  took  her  in  his  arms  ; 
and  while  walking  her  up  and  down 


104  jtfbarjorie  $lcmii\Q. 

the  room,  she  said,  '  Father,  I  will  re« 
peat  something  to  you  ;  what  would 
you  like  ? '  He  said,  '  Just  choose 
yourself,  Maidie. '  She  hesitated  for  a 
moment  between  the  paraphrase,  '  Few 
are  thy  days,  and  full  of  woe,'  and  the 
lines  of  Burns  already  quoted,  but 
decided  on  the  latter,  a  remarkable 
choice  for  a  child.  The  repeating  these 
lines  seemed  to  stir  up  the  depths  of 
feeling  in  her  soul.  She  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  write  a  poem  ;  there  was  a 
doubt  whether  it  would  be  right  to 
allow  her,  in  case  of  hurting  her  eyes. 
She  pleaded  earnestly,  '  Just  this  once ' ; 
the  point  was  yielded,  her  slate  was 
given  her,  and  with  great  rapidity  she 
wrote  an  address  of  fourteen  lines, 
*  to  her  loved  cousin  on  the  author's 
recovery/  her  last  work  on  earth  : — 

*  Oh  !  Isa,  pain  did  visit  me, 
I  was  at  the  last  extremity ; 


tf&arjotie  Fleming.  105 

How  often  did  I  think  of  you, 
I  wished  your  graceful  form  to  view, 
To  clasp  you  in  my  weak  embrace, 
Indeed  I  thought  I'd  run  my  race  : 
Good  care,  I'm  sure,  was  of  me  taksn. 
But  still  indeed  I  was  much  shaken, 
At  last  I  daily  strength  did  gain, 
And  oh  !  at  last,  away  went  pain  ; 
At  length  the  doctor  thought  I  might 
Stay  in  the  parlor  all  the  night ; 
I  now  continue  so  to  do, 
Farewell  to  Nancy  and  to  you.' 

She  went  to  bed  apparently  well,  awoke 
:n  the  middle  of  the  night  with  the  old 
cry  of  woe  to  a  mother's  heart,  '  My 
head,  my  head  ! '  Three  days  of  the 
dire  malady,  '  water  in  the  head/  fol- 
lowed, and  the  end  came." 

**  Soft,  silken  primrose,  fading  tunelessly." 

It  is  needless,  it  is  impossible,  to 
add  anything-  to  this  :  the  fervor,  the 
sweetness,  the  flush  of  poetic  ecstasy, 


106  d&arjorte  3f  lemma. 

the  lovely  and  glowing  eye,  the  perfect 
nature  of  that  bright  and  warm  in- 
telligence, that  darling  child,  —  Lady 
Nairne's  words,  and  the  old  tune,  steal- 
ing up  from  the  depths  of  the  human 
heart,  deep  calling  unto  deep,  gentle 
and  strong  like  the  waves  of  the  great 
sea  hushing  themselves  to  sleep  in  the 
dark  ; — the  words  of  Burns  touching 
the  kindred  chord,  her  last  numbers 
"wildly  sweet  "  traced,  with  thin  and 
eager  ringers,  already  touched  by  the 
last  enemy  and  friend, — moriens  caniJ, 
— and  that  love  which  is  so  soon  to 
be  her  everlasting  light,  is  her  song's 
burden  to  the  end. 

"  She  set  as  sets  the  morning  star,  which  goe* 
Not  down  behind  the  darkened  west,  nor  hi*'  a 
Obscured  among  the  tempests  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  ught  of  heaven. H 


THE 
MYSTERY  OF  BLACK  AND  TAN 


The  Mystery  of  BJack  and 
Tan. 


We, — the  Sine  Qud  Abn,the  Duchess, 
the  Sputchard,  the  Dutchard,  the  Rica- 
picticapic,  Oz  and  Oz,  the  Maid.of  Lorn, 
and  myself, — left  Crieff  some  fifteen 
years  ago,  on  a  bright  September 
morning,  soon  after  daybreak,  in  a  gig. 
It  was  a  morning,  still  and  keen  :  the 
sun  sending  his  level  shafts  across 
Strathearn,  and  through  the  thin  mist 
over  its  river  hollows,  to  the  fierce 
Aberuchil  Hills,  and  searching  out  the 
dark  blue  shadows  in  the  coiries  of 
Benvorlich.     But  who  and  how  n&a*iy 

109 


no    /flusters  of  ^lacft  ano  San. 

are  "  we?  "  To  make  you  as  easy  as 
we  all  were,  let  me  tell  you  we  were 
four  ;  and  are  not  these  dumb  friends 
of  ours  persons  rathers  than  things  ?  is 
not  their  soul  ampler,  as  Plato  would 
say,  than  their  body,  and  contains 
rather  than  is  contained  ?  Is  not  what 
lives  and  wills  in  them,  and  is  affec- 
tionate, as  spiritual,  as  immaterial,  as 
truly  removed  from  mere  flesh,  blood, 
and  bones,  as  that  soul  which  is  the 
proper  self  of  their  master  ?  And  when 
we  look  each  other  in  the  face,  as  I 
now  look  in  Dick's,  who  is  lying-  in  his 
"  corny"  by  the  fireside,  and  he  in 
mine,  is  it  not  as  much  the  dog  within 
looking  from  out  his  eyes — the  win- 
dows of  his  soul — as  it  is  the  man  from 
his? 

The  Sine  Qua  Ami,  who  will  not  be 
pleased  at  being  spoken  of,  is  such  an 
one  as  that  vain-glorious  and  chiv- 
alrous Ulric  von   Hiitten — the  Refor- 


ifisteiE  of  JBlacfc  ano  Gan.    nw 

mation's  man  of  wit,  and  of  the  world, 
ana  of  the  sword,  who  slew  Monkery 
with  the  wild  laughter  of  his  Epistolcs 
Obscurorum  Virorum — had  in  his  mind 
when  he  wrote  thus  to  his  friend 
Fredericus  Piscator  (Mr.  Fred.  Fisher), 
on  the  19th  May,  15 19,  "Da  mihi  uxo- 
rem,  Friderice,  et  ut  scias  qualem,  venus- 
lam,  adolescentula?n,  probe  educatam, 
hilar  em,  verecundam,  patieniem."  "Qua- 
lem," he  lets  Frederic  understand  in 
the  sentence  preceding-,  is  one  "  qud 
cum  ludam,  qudjocos  conferam,  amoeni- 
ores  et  leviusculas  fabulas  misceam,  ubi 
sollicitudinis  aciem  obtundam,  curarum 
cestus  viitigem."  And  if  you  would 
know  more  of  the  Sine  Qud  Non,  and 
in  English,  for  the  world  is  dead  to 
Latin  now,  you  will  find  her  name  and 
nature  in  Shakspeare's  words,  when 
King  Henry  the  Eighth  says,  "  go  thy 
ways. " 

The  Duchess,    alias    all    the    other 


H2    dusters  or  JBiacft  anD  sran. 

names  till  you  come  to  the  Maid  of 
Lorn,  is  a  rough,  gnarled,  incompar- 
able little  bit  of  a  terrier,  three  parts 
Dandie-Dinmont,  and  one  part — chiefly 
in  tail  and  hair — cocker  :  her  father 
being  Lord  Rutherfurd's  famous 
"Dandie,"  and  her  mother  the  daughter 
of  a  Skye,  and  2  light-hearted  Cocker. 
The  Duchess  is  about  the  size  and 
weight  of  a  rabbit  ;  but  has  a  soul  as 
big,  as  fierce,  and  as  faithful  as  had 
Meg  MerriHes,  with  a  nose  as  black  as 
Topsy's  ;  and  is  herself  every  bit  as 
game  and  queer  as  that  delicious  imp 
of  darkness  and  of  Mrs.  Stowe.  Her 
legs  set  her  long  slim  body  about  two 
inches  and  a  half  from  the  ground, 
making  her  very  like  a  huge  caterpillar 
or  hairy  oobit — her  two  eyes,  dark  and 
full,  and  her  shining  nose,  being  all  of 
her  that  seems  anything  but  hair. 
Her  tail  was  a  sort  of  stump,  in  size 
and  in  look  very  much  like  a  spare 


tf£>£sten>  of  :JBlack  ano  Gam    113 

foreleg-,  stuck  in  anywhere  to  be  near. 
Her  color  v/as  black  above  and  a  rich 
brown  below,  with  two  dots  of  tan 
above  the  eyes,  which  dots  are  among 
the  deepest  of  the  mysteries  of  Black 
and  Tan. 

This  strange  little  being  I  had  known 
for  some  years,  but  had  only  possessed 
about  a  month.  She  and  her  pup  (a 
young  lady  called  Smoot,  which  means 
smolt,  a  young  salmon),  were  given 
me  by  the  widow  of  an  honest  and 
drunken — as  much  of  the  one  as  of  the 
other — Edinburgh  street-porter,  a  na- 
tive of  Badenoch,  as  a  legacy  from  hint 
and  a  fee  from  her  for  my  attendance 
on  the  poor  man's  death-bed.  But  my 
first  sight  of  the  Duchess  was  years 
before  in  Broughton  Street,  when  I  saw 
her  sitting  bolt  upright,  begging,  U, 
ploring,  with  those  little  rough  four 
leggies,  and  those  yearning,  beautiful 
eyes,  all  the  world,  or  any  one,  to  help 


U4   /Sisters?  ct  3SIacfc  anD  £an. 

her  master,  who  was  lying  "  mortal  " 
in  the  kennel.  I  raised  him,  and  with 
the  help  of  a  ragged  Samaritan,  who 
was  only  less  drunk  than  he,  I  got 
Macpherson — he  held  from  Glen  Truim 
— home  ;  the  excited  doggie  trotting 
off,  and  looking  back  eagerly  to  show 
us  the  way.  I  never  again  passed  the 
Porters'  Stand  without  speaking  to  her. 
After  Malcolm's  burial  I  took  pos- 
session of  her  ;  she  escaped  to  the 
wretched  house,  but  as  her  mistress 
was  off  to  Kingussie,  and  the  door 
shut,  she  gave  a  pitiful  howl  or  two, 
and  was  forthwith  back  at  my  door, 
with  an  impatient,  querulous  bark. 
And  so  this  is  our  second  of  the  four  ; 
and  is  she  not  deserving  of  as  many 
names  as  any  other  Duchess,  from 
her  of  Medina-Sidonia  downwards? 

A  fierier  little  soul  never  dwelt  in 
a  queerer  or  stancher  body  ;  see  her 
huddled  up,  and  you  would  think  her 


fl&S6tcr\?  ot  36lack  anO  Can.     115 

a  bundle  of  hair,  or  bit  of  old  mossy 
wood,  or  a  slice  of  heathery  turf,  with 
some  red  soil  underneath  :  but  speak  to 
her,  or  give  her  a  cat  to  deal  with,  be 
it  bigger  than  herself,  and  what  an 
incarnation  of  affection,  energy,  and 
fury — what  a  fell  unquenchable  little 
ruffian. 

The  Maid  of  Lorn  was  a  chestnut 
mare,  a  broken-down  racer,  thorough- 
bred as  Beeswing,  but  less  fortunate  in 
her  life,  and  I  fear  not  so  happy  occa- 
sions mortis  :  unlike  the  Duchess  her 
body  was  greater  and  finer  than  her 
soul  ;  still  she  was  a  ladylike  creature, 
sleek,  slim,  nervous,  meek,  willing,  and 
fleet.  She  had  been  thrown  down  by 
some  brutal  half-drunk  Forfarshire  laird, 
when  he  put  her  wildly  and  with  her 
wind  gone,  at  the  last  hurdle  on  the 
North  Inch  at  the  Perth  races.  She  was 
done  for  and  bought  for  ten  pounds  by 
<he  landlord  of  the  Drummond  Arms, 


u6    tf&gaten?  of  mack  ano  Gan. 

Crieff,  who.  had  been  taking  as  much 
money  out  of  her,  and  putting  as  little 
corn  into  her  as  was  compatible  with 
life,  purposing  to  run  her  for  the  Conso- 
lation Stakes  at  Stirling,  Poor  young 
lady,  she  was  a  sad  sight — broken 
in  back,  in  knees,  in  character,  and 
wind — in  everything  but  temper,  which 
was  as  sweet  and  all-enduring  as 
Penelope's  or  our  own  Enid's. 

Of  myself,  the  fourth,  I  decline  mak- 
ing any  account.  Be  it  sufficient  that 
I  am  the  Dutchard's  master,  and  drove 
the  gig. 

It  was,  as  I  said,  a  keen  and  bright 
morning,  and  the  S.  Q.  N.  feeling  chilly, 
and  the  Duchess  being  away  after  a 
cat  up  a  back  entry,  doing  a  chance 
stroke  of  business,  and  the  mare  look- 
ing only  half  breakfasted,  I  made  them 
give  her  a  full  feed  of  meal  and  water 
and  stood  by  and  enjoyed  her  en- 
joyment.    It  seemed  too  good   co  be 


flbvetexv  of  JBlacft  ano  Can.    117 

true,  and  she  looked  up  every  now  and 
then  in  the  midst  of  her  feast,  with  a 
mild  wonder.  Away  she  and  I  bowled 
down  the  sleeping-  village,  all  overrun 
with  sunshine,  the  dumb  idiot  man  and 
the  birds  alone  up,  for  the  ostler  was  off 
to  his  straw.  There  was  the  S.  Q.  N. 
and  her  small  panting  friend,  who  had 
lost  the  eat,  but  had  got  what  philoso- 
phers say  is  better — the  chase.  ' '  Nous 
ne  cherchons  jamais  les  choses,  mais  la 
recherche  des  choses,"  says  Pascal. 
The  Duchess  would  substitute  for  les 
choses — les  chats.  Pursuit,  not  posses- 
sion, was  her  passion.  We  all  got  in, 
and  off  set  the  Maid,  who  was  in  ex- 
cellent heart,  quite  gay,  pricking  her 
ears  and  casting  up  her  head,  and  rat- 
tling away  at  a  great   pace. 

We  baited  at  St.  Fillans,  and  again 
cheered  the  heart  of  the  Maid  with 
unaccustomed  corn — the  S.  Q.  N., 
Duchie,   and  myself,  going  up  to  the 


1 1 8    dfcgsterB  of  Muck  and  Can. 

beautiful  rising-  ground  at  the  back  of 
the  inn,  and  lying  on  the  fragrant 
heather  looking  at  the  Loch,  with  its 
mild  gleams  and  shadows,  and  its 
second  heaven  looking  out  from  its 
depths,  the  wild,  rough  mountains 
of  Glenartney  towering  opposite. 
Duchie,  I  believe,  was  engaged  in 
minor  business  close  at  hand,  and 
caught  and  ate  several  large  flies  and 
a  humble-bee  ;  she  was  very  fond  of 
this  small  game. 

There  is  not  in  all  Scotland,  or  as 
far  as  I  have  seen  in  all  else,  a  more 
exquisite  twelve  miles  of  scenery  than, 
that  between  Crieff  and  the  head  of 
Lochearn.  Ochtertyre,  and  its  woods  ; 
Benchonzie,  the  head-quarters  of  the 
earthquakes,  only  lower  than  Benvor- 
lich-Strowan  ;  Lawers.  with  its  grand 
old  Scotch  pines  :  Comrie,  with  the 
wild  Lednoch  ;  Dunira  ;  and  St.  Fil- 
lans,    where    we    are  now   lying,    and 


il*v>6tcr£  cf  :«6lacfc  an£  Can.    119 

•.•here  the  poor  thoroughbred  is  tuck- 
ing in  her  corn.  We  start  after  two 
hours  of  dreaming  in  the  half  sun- 
light, and  rumble  ever  and  anon  over 
an  earthquake,  as  the  common  folk 
call  these  same  hollow,  resounding 
rifts  in  the  rock  beneath,  and  arriving 
at  the  old  inn  at  Lochearnhead.  have 
a  tousie  tea.  In  the  evening,  when  the 
day  was  darkening  into  night,  Duchie 
and  I, — the  S.  Q.  N.  remaining  to  read 
and  rest, — walked  up  Glen  Ogle.  It 
was  then  in  its  primeval  state,  the  new 
road  non-existent,  and  the  old  one 
staggering  up  and  down  and  across 
that  most  original  and  Cyclopean 
valley,  deep,  threatening,  savage,  and 
yet  beautiful— 

■  Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 
As  by  a  spirit  turbulent ; 
Where  sights   were   rough,  and  sounds  wer« 

wild, 
And  everything  unreconciled  :  " 


i2o    rt&ssterg  ot  Black  anD  San. 

with  flocks  of  mighty  boulders,  stray.* 
ing  all  over  it.  Some  far  up,  and 
frightful  to  look  at,  'others  huddled 
down  in  the  river,  immane  pecus,  and 
one  huge  unloosened  fellow,  as  big  as 
a  manse,  up  aloft  watching  them,  like 
old  Proteus  with  his  calves,  as  if  they 
had  fled  from  the  sea  by  stress  of 
weather,  and  had  been  led  by  their 
ancient  herd  altos  visere  monies — a 
wilder,  more  ''unreconciled"  place  I 
know  not ;  and  now  that  the  darkness 
was  being  poured  into  it,  those  big 
fellows  looked  bigger,  and  hardly 
"  canny." 

Just  as  we  were  turning  to  come 
home — Duchie  unwillingly,  as  she  had 
much  multifarious,  and  as  usual  fruit- 
less hunting  to  do — she  and  I  were 
startled  by  seeing  a  dog  in  the  side 
of  the  hill,  where  the  soil  had  been 
broken.  She  barked  and  I  stared ; 
she    trotted    consequentially   up   and 


jfl&E0terg  of  JBlach  ano  Can.    121 

snuffed  more  canino,  and  I  went 
tiearer  :  it  never  moved,  and  on  coming 
quite  close  I  saw  as  it  were  the  image 
of  a  terrier,  a  something  that  made  me 
think  of  an  idea  wwrealized  ;  the  rough, 
fBhort,  scrubby  heather  and  dead  grass, 
made  a  color  and  a  coat  just  like  those 
of  a  good  Highland  terrier — a  sort  of 
pepper  and  salt  this  one  was — and 
below,  the  broken  soil,  in  which  there 
was  some  iron  and  clay,  with  old 
gnarled  roots,  for  all  the  world  like  its 
odd,  bandy,  and  sturdy  legs.  Duchie 
seemed  not  so  easily  unbeguiled  as  I 
was,  and  kept  staring,  and  snuffing, 
and  growling,  but  did  not  touch  it,— 
seemed  afraid.  I  left  and  looked 
again,  and  certainly  it  was  very  odd 
the  growing  resemblance  to  one  of  the 
indigenous,  hairy,  low-legged  dogs, 
one  sees  all  about  the  Highlands, 
terriers,  or  earthy  ones. 

We  came  home,  and  told  the  S.  Q.  N. 


l>2    dfcgstirrg  of  JSUcft  ano  5l4n. 

our  joke.  I  dreamt  of  that  vision- 
ary terrier,  that  son  of  the  soil,  all 
night  ;  and  in  the  very  early  morn- 
ing, leaving  the  S.  Q.  N.  asleep,  I 
walked  up  with  the  Duchess  to  the 
same  spot.  What  a  morning  !  it  was 
before  sunrise,  at  least  before  he  had 
got  above  Benvorlich.  The  loch  was 
lying  in  a  faint  mist,  beautiful  exceed- 
ingly, as  if  half  veiled  and  asleep, 
the  cataract  of  Edinample  roaring  less 
loudly  than  in  the  night,  and  the  old 
castle  of  the  Lords  of  Lochow,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hills,  among  its  trees, 
might  be  seen 

H  Sole  sitting  by  the  shore  of  old  romance." 

There  was  still  gloom  in  Glen  Ogle, 
though  the  beams  of  the  morning  were 
shooting  up  into  the  broad  fields  of  the 
sky.  I  was  looking  back  and  down, 
when  I  heard  the  Duchess  bark  sharply, 
and  then  give  a  cry  of  fear,   and  on 


floaters  of  ."©lack  snd  Z&n.    123 

fanning  round,  there  was  she  with  as 
much  as  she  had  of  tail  between  her 
legs,  where  I  never  saw  it  before,  and 
her  small  Grace,  without  noticing-  me 
or  my  cries,  making  down  to  the  inn 
and  her  mistress,  a  hairy  hurricane.  I 
walked  on  to  see  what  it  was,  and 
there  in  the  same  spot  as  last  night, 
in  the  bank,  was  a  real  dog — no  mis- 
take ;  it  was  not,  as  the  day  before,  a 
mere  surface  or  spectrum,  or  ghost  ot 
a  dog  ;  it  was  plainly  round  and  sub- 
stantial ;  it  was  much  developed  since 
eight  p.  m.  As  I  looked,  it  moved 
slightly,  and  as  it  were  by  a  sort  of 
shiver,  as  if  an  electric  shock  (and  why 
not?)  was  being  administered  by  a  law 
of  nature  ;  it  had  then  no  tail,  or  rather 
had  an  odd  amorphous  look  in  that 
region  ;  its  eye,  for  it  had  one — it  was 
seen  in  profile — looked  to  my  profane 
vision  Hke  (why not  actually?)  a  huge 
blaeberry  (vaccim'um  MyrtiUus,  it  is  well 


i24   At>0ten>  ot  ;©lacfe  an&  Can. 

to  be  scientific)  black  and  full ;  and  I 
thought, — but  dare  not  be  sure,  and  had 
no  time  or  courage  to  be  minute, — 
that  where  the  nose  should  be,  there 
was  a  small  shining  black  snail,  prob- 
ably the  Umax  niger  of  M.  de  Ferussac, 
curled  up,  and  if  you  look  at  any  dog's 
nose  you  will  be  struck  with  the  typi- 
cal resemblance,  in  the  corrugations 
and  moistness  and  jetty  blackness  of 
the  one  to  the  other,  and  of  the  other 
to  the  one.  He  was  a  strongly-built, 
wiry,  bandy,  and  short-legged  dog. 
As  I  was  staring  upon  him,  a  beam — 
Oh,  first  creative  beam  ! — sent  from 
the  sun — 

44  Like  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow, 
Shot  by  an  archer  strong  " — 

as  he  looked  over  Benvorlich's  shoulde:v 
and  piercing  a  cloudlet  of  mist  wnich 
clung  close  to  him,  and  filling  it  with 
whitest  radiance,  struck  upon  thp*  *"« 


/Bgsterg  of  :ftHac&  ano  Gan.     125 

or  berry  and  lit  up  that  nose  or  snail: 
in  an  instant  he  sneezed  (the  nisus 
{sneeztis? )  formativus  of  the  ancients)  ; 
that  eye  quivered  and  was  quickened, 
and  with  a  shudder — such  as  a  horse 
executes  with  that  curious  muscle  of 
the  skin,  of  which  we  have  a  mere 
fragment  in  our  neck,  the  Platysma 
Myoides,  and  which  doubtless  has  been 
lessened  as  we  lost  our  distance  from 
the  horse-type — which  dislodged  some 
dirt  and  stones  and  dead  heather,  and 
doubtless  endless  beetles,  and,  it  may 
be,  made  some  near  weasel  open  his 
other  eye,  up  went  his  tail,  and ;  out 
he  came,  lively,  entire,  consummate, 
warm,  wagging  his  tail,  I  was  going  to 
say  like  a  Christian,  I  mean  like  an  ordi- 
nary dog.  Then  flashed  upon  me  the 
solution  of  the  Mystery  of  Black  and 
Tan  in  all  its  varieties  :  the  body,  its  up- 
per part  gray  or  black  or  yellow  accord- 
ing to  the  upper  soil  and  herbs,  heather. 


j 26    dfcu*tctu  at  J&lacfc  anfc  Han. 

bent,  moss,  etc.  :  the  belly  and  {cet 
led  or  tan  or  light  fawn,  according  to 
the  nature  of  the  deep  soil,  be  it  ochrey. 
ferruginous,  light  clay,  or  comminuted 
mica  slate.  And  wonderfullest  of  all, 
the  Dots  of  Tan  above  the  eyes — and 
who  has  not  noticed  and  wondered  as 
to  the  philosophy  of  them  ? — I  saw  mode 
by  the  two  fore  feet,  wet  and  clayey, 
being  put  briskly  up  to  his  eyes  as  he 
sneezed  that  genetic,  vivifying* sneeze, 
and  leaving  their  mark,  forever. 

He  took  to  me  quite  pleasantly,  by 
virtue  of  "  natural  selection,"'  and  has 
accompanied  me  thus  far  in  our  ' '  strug- 
gle for  life,"  and  he,  and  the  S.  Q.  N., 
and  the  Duchess,  and  the  Maid,  re- 
turned that  day  to  Crieff,  and  were 
friends  all  our  days.  I  was  a  little 
timid  when  he  was  crossing  a  burn 
lest  he  should  Avash  away  his  feet,  but 
he  merely  colored  the  water,  and 
every  day  less  and  less,  till  in  a  fort- 


/listers  ot  JBUcfc  anO  Caii.    127 

night  I  could  wash  him  without  fear 
of  his  becoming  a  solution,  or  fluid 
extract  of  dog,  and  thus  resolving  the 
mystery  back  into  itself. 

The  mare's  days  were  short.  She 
won  the  Consolation  Stakes  at  Stirling, 
and  was  found  dead  next  morning  in 
Cibb's  stables.  The  Duchess  died  in 
a  good  old  age,  as  may  be  seen  in  the 
history  of  ''Our  Dogs."  The  S.  Q,  N., 
and  the  parthenogenesic  earth-born, 
t'i  ■  Cespes  Vivus — whom  we  some- 
is  called  Joshua,  because  he  was 
the  Son  of  None  (Nun),  and  even 
M  '.  jhisedec  has  been  whispered,  but 
only  that,  and  Fitz  Memnon,  as  being 
as  it  were  a  son  of  the  Sun,  sometimes 
the  Autochthon  avrox&ovos ;  (indeed,  if 
the  relation  of  the  coup  de  soleil  and 
the  blaeberry  had  not  been  plainly 
causal  and  effectual,  I  might  have 
called  him  Filius  Gunni,  for  at  the 
very   moment    of    that    shudder,    by 


i2b    l&V8texy  ot  JSlacK  ano  Can, 

which  he  leapt  out  of  non-life  into 
life,  the  Marquis's  gamekeeper  fired 
his  rifle  up  the  hill,  and  brought  down 
a  stray  young  stag,)  these  two  are 
happily  with  me  still,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment she  is  out  on  the  grass  in  a  low 
easy-chair,  reading  Emilie  Carlen's 
Brilliant  Marriage,  and  Dick  is  lying 
at  her  feet,  watching,  with  cocked 
ears,  some  noise  in  the  ripe  wheat, 
possibly  a  chicken,  for,  poor  fellow, 
he  has  a  weakness  for  worrying  hens, 
and  such  small  deer,  when  there  is  a 
dearth  of  greater.  If  any,  as  is  not 
unreasonable,  doubt  me  and  my  story, 
they  may  come  and  see  Dick.  1 
assure  them  he  is  well  worth  seeing. 


fl£&  LAST  HALF-CROW^ 


Her  Last  Half-Crown. 


Hugh  Miller,  the  geologist,  jour- 
nalist, and  man  of  genius,  was  sitting 
in  his  newspaper  office  late  one  dreary 
winter  night  The  clerks  had  all  left 
and  he  was  preparing  to  go,  when  a 
quick  rap  came  to  the  door.  He  said 
"Come  in,"  and,  looking  towards  the 
entrance,  saw  a  little  ragged  child  all 
wet  with  sleet.  "Are  ye  Hugh 
Miller?"  "Yes."  "  Mary  Duff  wants 
ye."  "  What  does  she  want  r  "  "  She's 
deein."  Some  misty  recollection  of 
the  name  made  him  at  once  set  out, 
and  with  his  well-known  plaid  and 
stick,  he  was  soon  striding  after  the 
9  J3* 


132        f>er  Xast  f)alt*Crown. 

child,  who  trotted  through  the  now 
deserted  High  Street,  into  the  Canon- 
gate.  By  the  time  he  got  to  the  Old 
Playhouse  Close,  Hugh  had  revived 
his  memory  of  Mary  Duff:  a  lively 
girl  who  had  been  bred  up  beside  him 
in  Cromarty.  The  last  time  he  had 
seen  her  was  at  a  brother  mason's 
marriage,  where  Mary  was  ' '  best 
maid,"  and  he  "  best  man."  He 
seemed  still  to  see  her  bright  young 
careless  face,  her  tidy  short  gown,  and 
her  dark  eyes,  and  to  hear  her  banter- 
ing, merry  tongue. 

Down  the  close  went  the  ragged 
little  woman,  and  up  an  outside  stair, 
Hugh  keeping  near  her  with  difficulty  ; 
in  the  passage  she  held  out  her  hand 
and  touched  him  ;  taking  it  in  his  great 
palm,  he  felt  that  she  wanted  a  thumb. 
Finding  her  way  like  a  cat  through 
the  darkness,  she  opened  a  door,  and 
saying  "That's  her  1 "  vanished     By 


t>ev  Xast  f)alf*Crown.         133 

the  light  of  a  dying  fire  he  saw  lying 
in  the  corner  of  the  large  empty  room 
something  like  a  woman's  clothes, 
and  on  drawing  nearer  became  aware 
of  a  thin  pale  face  and  two  dark  eyes 
looking  keenly  but  helplessly  up  at 
him.  The  eyes  were  plainly  Mary 
Duffs,  though  he  could  recognize 
no  other  feature.  She  wept  silently, 
gazing  steadily  at  him.  "  Are  you 
Mary  Duff?"  "It's  a'  that's  o'  me, 
Hugh."  She  then  tried  to  speak 
to  him,  something  plainly  of  great 
urgency,  but  she  couldn't,  and  seeing 
that  she  was  very  ill,  and  was  making 
herself  worse,  he  put  half-a-crown 
into  her  feverish  hand,  and  said  he 
would  call  again  in  the  morning.  He 
could  get  no  information  about  her 
from  the  neighbors ;  they  were  surly 
or  asleep. 

When  he  returned  next  morning,  the 
little  girl  met  him  at  the   stair-head, 


134       *^r  Zast  DalteCrown. 

and  said,  "She's  deid."  He  went  in, 
and  found  that  it  was  true  ;  there  she 
lay,  the  fire  out,  her  face  placid,  and  the 
likeness  to  her  maiden  self  restored. 
Hugh  thought  he  would  have  known 
her  now,  even  with  those  bright  black 
eyes  closed  as  they  were,  in  ceternum. 

Seeking  out  a  neighbor,  he  said  he 
would  like  to  bury  Mary  Duff,  and 
arranged  for  the  funeral  with  an  under- 
taker in  the  close.  Little  seemed  to 
be  known  of  the  poor  outcast,  except 
that  she  was  a  "licht,"  or,  as  Solomon 
would  have  said,  a  "  strange  woman." 
« '  Did  she  drink  ?  "     "  Whiles. " 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral  one  or 
two  residents  in  the  close  accompanied 
him  to  the  Canongate  Churchyard. 
He  observed  a  decent  looking  little 
old  woman  watching  them,  and  fol- 
lowing at  a  distance,  though  the  day 
was  wet  and  bitter.  After  the  grave 
was  rilled,   and  he   had   taken  off  his 


t>er  Xast  •fcalf*Grown.         135 

hat,  as  the  men  finished  their  business 
by  putting  on  and  slapping  the  sod, 
he  saw  this  old  woman  remaining. 
She  came  up  and,  courtesying,  said, 
1 '  Ye  wad  ken  that  lass,  sir  ?  "  '  *  Yes  ; 
I  knew  her  when  she  was  young." 
The  woman  then  burst  into  tears,  and 
told  Hugh  that  she  "  keepit  a  bit  shop 
at  the  Closemooth,  and  Mary  dealt 
wi'  me,  and  aye  paid  reglar,  and  I 
was  feared  she  was  dead,  for  she  had 
been  a  month  awin'  mehalf-a-crown  ;  " 
and  then  with  a  look  and  voice  of  awe, 
she  told  him  how  on  the  night  he  was 
sent  for,  and  immediately  after  he  had 
left,  she  had  been  awakened  by  some 
one  in  her  room  ;  and  by  her  bright 
fire — for  she  was  a  bein,  weil-to-do 
body — she  had  seen  the  wasted  dying 
creature,  who  came  forward  and  said, 
"Wasn't  it  half-a-crown  ?  "  "Yes." 
"There  it  is,"  and  putting  it  under 
the  bolster,  vanished  ! 


136       tber  Xast  t)atf*Crovvn. 

Alas  for  Mary  Duff !  her  career  had 
been  a  sad  one  since  the  day  when 
she  had  stood  side  by  side  with  Hugh 
at  the  wadding  of  their  friends.  Her 
father  died  not  long  after,  and  her 
mother  supplanted  her  in  the  affections 
of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given  her 
heart.  The  shock  was  overwhelming, 
and  made  home  intolerable.  Mary 
fled  from  it  blighted  and  embittered, 
and  after  a  life  of  shame  and  sorrow, 
crept  into  the  corner  of  her  wretched 
garret,  to  die  deserted  and  alone  ;  giv- 
ing evidence  in  her  latest  act  that  hon- 
esty had  survived  amid  the  wreck  of 
nearly  every  other  virtue. 

'  My  thoughts  are  not  your  thoughts, 
neither  are  your  ways  my  ways,  saith 
the  Lord.  For  as  the  heavens  are 
higher  than  the  earth,  so  are  my  ways 
higher  than  your  ways,  and  my  thoughts 
than  your  thoughts." 


OUR  DOGS. 


Our  Dogs. 


I  was  bitten  severely  by  a  little  dog 
when  with  my  mother  at  Moffat  Wells, 
being"  then  three  years  of  age,  and  I 
have  remained  "bitten  "  ever  since  in 
the  matter  of  dogs.  I  remember  that 
little  dog,  and  can  at  this  moment  not 
only  recall  my  pain  and  terror — I  have 
no  doubt  I  was  to  blame — but  also  her 
£ace  ;  and  were  I  allowed  to  search 
among  the  shades  in  the  cynic  Elysian 
fields,  I  could  pick  her  out  still.  All 
my  life  I  have  been  familiar  with  these 
faithful  creatures,  making  friends  of 
them,  and  speaking  to  them ;  and  the 
only  time  I  ever  addressed  the  public, 

*39 


140  ©Ut  S>O06. 

about  a  year  after  being  bitten,  was  at 
the  farm  of  Kirklaw  Hill,  near  Biggar, 
when  the  text,  given  out  from  an  empty 
cart  in  which  the  ploughmen  had  placed 
me,  was  "  Jacob's  dog,"  and  my  entire 
sermon  was  as  follows: — "Some  say 
that  Jacob  had  a  black  dog  (the  o  very 
long),  and  some  say  that  Jacob  had 
a  white  dog,  but  /  (imagine  the  pre- 
sumption of  four  years  !)  say  Jacob  had 
a  brown  dog,  and  a  brown  dog  it  shall 
be." 

I  had  many  intimacies  from  this 
time  onwards — Bawtie,  of  the  inn  ; 
Keeper,  the  carrier's  bull-terrier  ;  Tiger 
a  huge  tawny  mastiff  from  Edinburgh, 
which  I  think  must  have  been  an  uncle 
of  Rab's  ;  all  the  sheep  dogs  at  Callands 
— Spring,  Mavis,  Yarrow,  Swallow, 
Cheviot,  etc. ;  but  it  was  not  till  I  was 
at  college,  and  my  brother  at  the  High 
School,  that  we  possessed  a  dog. 


^UV  £>O0S.  i4i 


TOBY 

*Vas  the  most  utterly  shabby,  vulgar, 
mean-looking  cur  I  ever  beheld :  in 
one  word,  a  tyke.  He  had  not  one 
good  feature  except  his  teeth  and  eyes, 
and  his  bark,  if  that  can  be  called  a 
feature.  He  was  not  ugly  enough  to 
be  interesting ;  his  color  black  and 
white,  his  shape  leggy  and  clumsy  ; 
altogether  what  Sydney  Smith  would 
have  called  an  extraordinarily  ordinary 
dog  ;  and,  as  I  have  said,  not  even 
greatly  ugly,  or,  as  the  Aberdonians 
have  it,  bonnie  wi  ill-fauredness.  My 
brother  William  found  him  the  center 
of  attraction  to  a  multitude  of  small 
blackguards  who  were  drowning  him 


142  ©ur.  Bogs. 

slowly  in  Lochend  Loch,  doing  their 
best  to  lengthen  out  the  process,  and 
secure  the  greatest  amount  of  fun  with 
the  nearest  approach  to  death.  Even 
then  Toby  showed  his  great  intellect  by 
pretending  to  be  dead,  and  thus  gain- 
ing time  and  an  inspiration.  William 
bought  him  for  twopence  and  as  he 
had  it  not,  the  boys  accompanied  him 
to  Pilrig  Street,  when  I  happened  to 
meet  him,  and  giving  the  twopence  to 
the  biggest  boy,  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  a  general  engagement  of  much 
severity,  during  which  the  twopence 
disappeared  ;  one  penny  going  off  with 
a  very  small  and  swift  boy,  and  the 
other  vanishing  hopelessly  into  the 
grating  of  a  drain. 

Toby  was  for  weeks  in  the  house 
unbeknown  to  any  one  but  ourselves 
two  and  the  cook,  and  from  my  grand- 
mother's love  of  tidiness  and  hatred  of 
dogs  and  of  dirt,  I  believe  she  would 


©Ut  &0Q5.  143 

have  expelled  "him  whom  we  saved 
from  drowning,"  had  not  he,  in  his 
straightforward  way,  walked  into  my 
father's  bedroom  one  night  when  he 
was  bathing  his  feet,  and  introduced 
himself  with  a  wag  of  his  tail,  intimat- 
ing a  general  willingness  to  be  happy. 
My  father  laughed  most  heartily,  and 
at  last  Toby,  having  got  his  way  to 
his  bare  feet,  and  having  begun  to  lick 
his  soles  and  between  his  toes  with  his 
small  rough  tongue,  my  father  gave 
such  an  unwonted  shout  of  laughter, 
that  we — grandmother,  sisters,  and  all 
of  us — went  in.  Grandmother  might 
argue  with  all  her  energy  and  skill,  but 
as  surely  as  the  pressure  of  Tom  Jones' 
infantile  fist  upon  Mr.  Allworthy's  fore- 
finger undid  all  the  arguments  of  his 
sister,  so  did  Toby's  tongue  and  fun 
prove  too  many  for  grandmother's  elo- 
quence. I  somehow  think  Toby  must 
have  been  up  to  all  this,  for  I  think  he 


144  ^ur  2)006. 

had  a  peculiar  love  for  my  father  ever 
after,  and  regarded  grandmother  from 
that  hour  with  a  careful  and  cool  eye. 
Toby,  when  full  grown,  was  a  strong, 
coarse  dog ;  coarse  in  shape,  in  coun- 
tenance, in  hair,  and  in  manner.  I 
used  to  think  that,  according  to  the 
Pythagorean  doctrine,  he  must  have 
been,  or  been  going  to  be  a  Gilmerton 
carter.  He  was  of  the  bull-terrier  vari- 
ety, coarsened  through  much  mongrel- 
ism  and  a  dubious  and  varied  ances- 
try. His  teeth  were  good,  and  he  had 
a  large  skull,  and  a  rich  bark  as  of  a 
dog  three  times  his  size,  and  a  tail 
which  I  never  saw  equalled — indeed  it 
was  a  tail  per  se  ;  it  was  of  immense 
girth  and  not  short,  equal  throughout 
like  a  policeman's  baton  ;  the  machin- 
ery for  working  it  was  of  great  power, 
and  acted  in  a  way,  as  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  discover,  quite  original 
We  called  it  his  ruler. 


©ur  2)003.  145 

When  he  wished  to  get  into  the  house, 
he  first  whined  gently,  then  growled, 
then  gave  a  sharp  bark,  and  then  came 
a  resounding,  mighty  stroke  which 
shook  the  house ;  this,  after  much 
study  and  watching,  we  found  was 
done  by  his  bringing  the  entire  length 
of  his  solid  tail  flat  upon  the  door,  with 
a  sudden  and  vigorous  stroke  ;  it  was 
quite  a  tour  de  force  or  a  coup  de  queue, 
and  he  was  perfect  in  it  at  once,  his 
first  bang  authoritative,  having  been  as 
masterly  and  telling  as  his  last. 

With  all  this  inbred  vulgar  air,  he  was 
a  dog  of  great  moral  excellence — affec- 
tionate, faithful,  honest  up  to  his  light, 
with  an  odd  humor  as  peculiar  and  as 
strong  as  his  tail.  My  father,  in  his  re- 
served way,  was  very  fond  of  him,  and 
there  must  have  been  very  funny  scenes 
with  them  for  we  heard  bursts  of  laugh- 
ter issuing  from  his  study  when  they  two 
were  by  themselves  ;  there  was  some- 


146  Our  Bogs. 

thing  in  him  that  took  that  grave,  beau- 
tiful, melancholy  face.  One  can  fancy 
him  in  the  midst  of  his  books,  and  sacred 
work  and  thoughts,  pausing  and  look- 
ing at  the  secular  Toby,  who  was  look- 
ing out  for  a  smile  to  begin  his  rough 
fun,  and  about  to  end  by  coursing  and 
gurrin  round  the  room,  upsetting  my 
father's  books,  laid  out  on  the  floor  for 
consultation,  and  himself  nearly  at 
times,  as  he  stood  watching  him — and 
off  his  guard  and  shaking  with  laughter. 
Toby  had  always  a  great  desire  to  ac- 
company my  father  up  to  town  ;  this 
my  father's  good  taste  and  sense  of  dig- 
nity, besides  his  fear  of  losing  his  friend 
(a  vain  fear  !),  forbade,  and  as  the  de- 
cision of  character  of  each  was  great 
and  nearly  equal,  it  was  often  a  drawn 
game.  Toby  ultimately,  by  making 
it  his  entire  object,  triumphed.  He 
usually  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  on  my 
father  lea  vino-  ■  he  however  saw  him, 


©ur  DO06.  147 

and  lay  in  wait  at  the  head  of  the  street, 
and  up  Leith  Walk  he  kept  him  in  view 
from  the  opposite  side  like  a  detective, 
and  then,  when  he  knew  it  was  hope- 
less to  hound  him  home,  he  crossed  un- 
blushingly  over,  and  joined  company, 
excessively  rejoiced  of  course. 

One  Sunday  he  had  gone  with  him 
to  church,  and  left  him  at  the  vestry 
door.  The  second  psalm  was  given 
out,  and  my  father  was  sitting  back  in 
the  pulpit,  when  the  door  at  its  back, 
up"  which  he  came  from  the  vestry,  was 
seen  to  move,  and  gently  open,  then 
after  a  long  pause,  a  black  shining 
snout  pushed  its  way  steadily  into  the 
congregation,  and  was  followed  by 
Toby's  entire  body.  He  looked  some- 
what abashed,  but  snuffing  his  friend, 
he  advanced  as  if  on  thin  ice,  and  not 
seeing  him,  put  his  forelegs  on  the 
pulpit,  and  behold  there  he  was,  his 
own  familiar  chum.  I  watched  all  this, 
10 


I4&  ©**C  £>0«^. 

and  anything  more  beautiful  than  his 
look  of  happiness,  of  comfort,  of  entire 
ease  when  he  beheld  his  friend, — the 
smoothing  down  of  the  anxious  ears, 
,  the  swing  of  gladness  of  that  mighty 
tail, — I  don't  expect  soon  to  see.  My 
father  quietly  opened  the  door,  and 
Toby  was  at  his  feet  and  invisible 
to  all  but  himself;  had  he  sent  old 
George  Peaston,  the  "minister's  man," 
to  put  him  out,  Toby  would  probably 
have  shown  his  teeth,  and  astonished 
George.  He  slunk  home  as  soon  as 
he  could,  and  never  repeated  that 
exploit. 

I  never  saw  in  any  other  dog  the  sud- 
den transition  from  discretion,  not  to  say 
abject  cowardice,  to  blazing  and  per- 
manent valor.  From  his  earliest  years 
he  showed  a  general  meanness  of  blood, 
inherited  from  many  generations  of 
starved,  bekicked,  and  down-trodden 
forefathers    and  mothers,    resulting  in 


®ur  2>O06.  149 

a  condition  of  intense  abjectness  in 
all  matters  of  personal  fear  ;  anybody, 
even  a  beggar,  by  a  gowl  and  a  threat 
of  eye,  could  send  him  off  howling 
by  anticipation,  with  that  mighty  tail 
between  his  legs.  But  it  was  not  al- 
ways so  to  be,  and  I  had  the  privilege 
of  seeing  courage,  reasonable,  absolute, 
and  for  life,  spring  up  in  Toby  at  once, 
as  did  Athene  from  the  skull  of  Jove. 
It  happened  thus  : — 

Toby  was  in  the  way  of  hiding 
his  culinary  bones  in  the  small  gar- 
dens before  his  own  and  the  neigh- 
boring doors.  Mr.  Scrymgeour,  two 
doors  off,  a  bulky,  choleric,  red-haired, 
red-faced  man — torvo  vultu — was,  by 
the  law  of  contrast,  a  great  culti- 
vator of  flowers,  and  he  had  often 
scowled  Toby  into  all  but  non-exist- 
ence by  a  stamp  of  his  foot  and  a  glare 
of  his  eye.  One  day  his  gate  being 
open,  in  walks  Toby  with  a  huge  bone, 


250  ©UC  &QQQ. 

and  making  a  hole  where  Scrymgeout 
had  two  minutes  before  been  planting 
some  precious  slip,  the  name  of  which 
on  paper  and  on  a  stick  Toby  made 
very  light  of,  substituted  his  bone, 
and  was  engaged  covering  it,  or  think- 
ing he  was  covering  it  up  with  his 
shovelling  nose  (a  very  odd  relic  of 
paradise  in  the  dog),  when  S.  spied  him 
through  the  inner  glass  door,  and  was 
out  upon  him  like  the  Assyrian,  with  a 
terrible  gowl.  I  watched  them.  In- 
stantly Toby  made  straight  at  him  with 
a  roar  too,  and  an  eye  more  torve  than 
Scrymgeour's,  who,  retreating  without 
reserve,  fell  prostrate,  there  is  reason 
to  believe,  in  his  own  lobby.  Toby 
contented  himself  with  proclaiming  his 
victory  at  the  door,  and  returning 
finished  his  bone-planting  at  his  leis- 
ure ;  the  enemy,  who  had  scuttled 
behind  the  glass-door,  glaring  at  him. 
From   this    moment   Toby    was    an 


emr  Does,  151 

altered  dog.  Pluck  at  first  sight  was 
lord  of  all  ;  from  that  time  dated  his 
first  tremendous  deliverance  of  tail 
against  the  door  which  we  called 
"come  listen  to  my  tail."  That  very 
evening  he  paid  a  visit  to  Leo,  next 
door's  dog,  a  big,  tyrannical  bully  and 
coward,  which  its  master  thought  a 
Newfoundland,  but  whose  pedigree 
we  knew  better  ;  this  brute  contin- 
ued the  same  system  of  chronic  ex- 
termination which  was  interrupted  at 
Lochend, — having  Toby  down  among 
his  feet,  and  threatening  him  with 
instant  death  two  or  three  times  a  day. 
To  him  Toby  paid  a  visit  that  very 
evening,  down  into  his  den,  and  walked 
about,  as  much  as  to  say  "Come  on, 
Macduff !  "  but  Macduff  did  not  come 
on,  and  henceforward  there  was  an 
armed  neutrality,  and  they  merely 
stiffened  up  and  made  their  backs 
rigid,  pretended   each   not  to   see   the 


152  ©ur  5>0Q6. 

other,  walking  solemnly  round,  as  is 
the  manner  of  dogs.  Toby  worked 
his  new-found  faculty  thoroughly,  but 
with  discretion.  He  killed  cats,  aston- 
ished beggars,  kept  his  own  in  his  own 
garden  against  all  comers,  and  came 
off  victorious  in  several  well-fought 
battles  ;  but  he  was  not  quarrelsome. 
or  foolhardy.  It  was  very  odd  how 
his  carriage  changed,  holding  his  head 
up,  and  how  much  pleasanter  he  was  at 
home.  To  my  father,  next  to  William, 
who  was  his  Humane  Society  man,  he 
remained  stanch.  And  what  of  his 
end  ?  for  the  misery  of  dogs  is  that 
they  die  so  soon,  or  as  Sir  Walter  says, 
it  is  well  they  do  ;  for  if  they  lived  as 
long  as  a  Christian,  and  we  liked  them 
in  proportion,  and  they  then  died,  he 
said  that  was  a  thing  he  could  not 
stand. 

His  exit  was  miserable,  and  had  a 
strange  poetic  or  tragic  relation  to  his 


©ur.  Doge.  153 

entrance.  My  father  was  out  of  town  ; 
I  was  away  in  England.  Whether  it 
was  that  the  absence  of  my  father  had 
relaxed  his  power  of  moral  restraint, 
or  whether  through  neglect  of  the  serv- 
ant he  had  been  desperately  hungry, 
or  most  likely  both  being  true,  Toby 
was  discovered  with  the  remains  of  a 
cold  leg  of  mutton,  on  which  he  had 
made  an  ample  meal ;  *  this  he  was  in 
vain  endeavoring  to  plant  as  of  old,  in 
the  hope  of  its  remaining  undiscovered 
till  to-morrow's  hunger  returned,  the 
whole  shank  bone  sticking  up  unmis- 
takably. This  was  seen  by  our  excel- 
lent and  Radamanthine  grandmother, 
who  pronounced  sentence  on  the  in- 
stant ;  and  next  day,  as  William   was 

*  Toby  was  in  the  state  of  the  shepherd  boy 
whom  George  Webster  met  in  Glenshee,  and 
asked,  "  My  man,  were  you  ever  fou  ?  "  "  Ay, 
aince,"  speaking  slowly,  as  if  remembering— 
"  Ay,  aince."   "  What  on  ?  "    "  Cauld  mutton  ! " 


154  ©Ut  W0Q6. 

leaving  for  the  High  School,  did  ho 
in  the  sour  morning,  through  an  east- 
erly haur,  behold  him  ' '  whom  he  saved 
from  drowning,"  and  whom,  with  bet- 
ter results  than  in  the  case  of  Launce 
and  Crab,  he  had  taught,  as  if  one 
should  say,  "thus  would  I  teach  a 
dog, "  dangling  by  his  own  chain  from 
his  own  lamp-post,  one  of  his  hind 
feet  just  touching  the  pavement,  and 
his  body  preternaturally  elongated. 

William  found  him  dead  and  warm, 
and  falling  in  with  the  milk-boy  at  the 
head  of  the  street,  questioned  him,  and 
discovered  that  he  was  the  executioner, 
and  had  got  twopence,  he — Toby's 
every  morning  crony,  who  met  him 
and  accompanied  him  up  the  street, 
and  licked  the  outside  of  his  can — had, 
with  an  eye  to  speed  and  convenience, 
and  a  want  of  taste,  not  to  say  princi- 
ple and  affection,  horrible  still  to  think 
of,    suspended  Toby's   animation    be- 


©ur  2)00*.  155 

yond  all  hope.  William  instantly  fell 
upon  him,  upsetting  his  milk  and 
cream,  and  gave  him  a  thorough  lick- 
ing, to  his  own  intense  relief ;  and,  be- 
ing late,  he  got  from  Pyper,  who  was 
a  martinet,  the  customary  palmies, 
which  he  bore  with  something  ap- 
proaching to  pleasure.  So  died  Toby  ; 
my  father  said  little,  but  he  missed 
and  mourned  his  friend. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  by 
one  of  those  curious  intertwistings  of 
existence,  the  milk-boy  was  that  one  of 
the  drowning  party  who  got  the  penny 
of  the  twopence. 


1 56  ©ur  2>0fl6. 


WYLIE. 

Our  next  friend  was  an  exquisite 
shepherd's  dog ;  fleet,  thin-flanked, 
dainty,  and  handsome  as  a  small  grey- 
hound, with  all  the  grace  of  silky 
waving  black  and  tan  hair.  We  got 
him  thus.  Being  then  young  and  keen 
botanists,  and  full  of  the  knowledge 
and  love  of  Tweedside,  having  been 
on  every  hill-top  from  Muckle  Mendic 
to  Hundleshope  and  the  Lee  Pen,  and 
having  fished  every  water  from  Tarth 
to  the  Leithen,  we  discovered  early  in 
spring  that  young  Stewart,  author  of 
an  excellent  book  on  natural  history, 
a  young  man  of  great  promise  and 
early  death,  had  found  the  Buxbaumia 


©uc  5>OG0.  157 

aphylla,  a  beautiful  and  odd-looking 
moss,  west  of  Newbie  heights,  in  the 
very  month  we  were  that  moment  in. 
We  resolved  to  start  next  day.  We 
walked  to  Peebles,  and  then  up  Hay- 
stoun  Glen  to  the  cottage  of  Adam 
Cairns,  the  aged  shepherd  of  the  New- 
bie hirsel,  of  whom  we  knew,  and  who 
knew  of  us  from  his  daughter,  Nancy 
Cairns,  a  servant  with  Uncle  Aitken  of 
Call.ands.  We  found  our  way  up  the 
burn  with  difficulty,  as  the  evening 
was  getting  dark  ;  and  on  getting  near 
the  cottage  heard  them  at  worship. 
We  got  in,  and  made  ourselves  known, 
and  got  a  famous  tea,  and  such  cream 
and  oat  cake  ! — old  Adam  looking  on 
us  as  ''clean  dementit  "  to  come  out 
for  "a  bit  moss,"  which,  however,  he 
knew,  and  with  some  pride  said  he 
would  take  us  in  the  morning  to  the 
place.  As  we  were  going  into  a  box 
bed   for   the   night,    two   young    men 


158  ©ur  Boae. 

Came  in,  and  said  they  were  "gaunto 
burn  the  water. "  Off  we  set.  It  was 
a  clear,  dark,  starlight,  frosty  night 
They  had  their  leisters  and  tar  torches, 
and  it  was  something  worth  seeing 
« — the  wild  flame,  the  young  fellows 
striking  the  fish  coming  to  the  light — 
how  splendid  they  looked  with  the 
light  on  their  scales,  coming  out  of  the 
darkness — the  stumblings  and  quench- 
ings  suddenly  of  the  lights,  as  the 
torch-bearer  fell  into  a  deep  pool.  We 
got  home  past  midnight,  and  slept  as 
we  seldom  sleep  now.  In  the  morn- 
ing Adam,  who  had  been  long  up,  and 
had  been  up  the  "Hope  "  with  his  dog, 
when  he  saw  we  had  wakened,  told  us 
there  was  four  inches  of  snow,  and  we 
soon  saw  it  was  too  true.  So  we  had 
to  go  home  without  our  cryptogamic 
prize. 

It  turned  out  that  Adam,  who  was  an 
Old  man  and  frail,  and  had  made  some 


©ur  2)00$.  159 

money,  was  going  at  Whitsunday  to 
leave,  and  live  with  his  son  in  Glas- 
gow. We  had  been  admiring  the 
beauty  and  gentleness  and  perfect 
shape  of  Wylie,  the  finest  colley  I 
ever  saw,  and  said,  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  Wylie?  "  "'Deed," 
says  he,  "I  hardly  ken.  I  canna 
think  o'  sellin'  her,  though  she's  worth 
four  pound,  and  shell  no  like  the 
toun. "  I  said,  "Would  you  let  me 
have  her  ?  "  and  Adam,  looking  at  her 
fondly — she  came  up  instantly  to  him, 
and  made  of  him — said,  "Ay,  I  wull, 
if  ye'll  be  gude  to  her  ; "  and  it  was 
settled  that  when  Adam  left  for  Glas- 
gow she  should  be  sent  into  Albany 
Street  by  the  carrier. 

She  came,  and  was  at  once  taken  to 
all  our  hearts,  even  grandmother  liked 
her  ;  and  though  she  was  often  pen- 
sive, as  if  thinking  of  her  master  and 
her  work  on  the  hills,  she  made  herself 


160  ©ur  H)O00» 

at  home,  and  behaved  in  all  respects 
like  a  lady.  When  out  with  me,  if  she 
saw  sheep  in  the  streets  or  road,  she 
got  quite  excited,  and  helped  the  work, 
and  was  curiously  useful,  the  being  so 
making  her  wonderfully  happy.  And 
so  her  little  life  went  on,  never  doing 
wrong,  always  blithe  and  kind  and 
beautiful.  But  some  months  after  she 
came,  there  was  a  mystery  about  her  : 
every  Tuesday  evening  she  disap- 
peared ;  we  tried  to  watch  her,  but  in 
vain,  she  was  always  off  by  nine  p.  m.  , 
and  was  away  all  night,  coming  back 
next  day  wearied  and  all  over  mud,  as 
if  she  had  travelled  far.  She  slept  all 
next  day.  This  went  on  for  some 
months  and  we  could  make  nothing  of 
it.  Poor  dear  creature,  she  looked  at 
us  wistfully  when  she  came  in,  as  if 
she  would  have  told  us  if  she  could, 
and  was  especially  fond,  though  tired. 
Well,  one  day  I  was  walking  across 


©uc  2)000.  161 

the  Grassmarket,  with  Wylie  at  my 
heels,  when  two  shepherds  started, 
and  looking  at  her,  one  said,  "That's 
her  ;  that's  the  wonderfu'  wee  bitch 
that  naebody  kens. "  I  asked  him  what 
he  meant,  and  he  told  me  that  for 
months  past  she  had  made  her  appear- 
ance by  the  first  daylight  at  the 
"  buchts  "  or  sheep-pens  in  the  cattle 
market,  and  worked  incessantly,  and 
to  excellent  purpose,  in  helping  the 
shepherds  to  get  their  sheep  and  lambs 
in.  The  man  said  with  a  sort  of  trans- 
port, "She's  a  perfect  meeracle,  flees 
about  like  a  speerit,  and  never  gangs 
wrang;  wears  but  never  grups,  and 
beats  a'  oor  dowgs.  She's  a  perfect 
meeracle,  and  as  soople  as  a  maukin. " 
Then  he  related  how  they  all  knew 
her,  and  said,  "  There's  that  wee  fell 
yin  ;  we'll  get  them  in  noo."  They 
tried  to  coax  her  to  stop  and  be  caught, 
but  no,  she  was  gentle,  but   off ;  and 


1 62  ©ur  2)005. 

for  many  a  day  that  "wee  felly  in" 
was  spoken  of  by  these  rough  fellows. 
She  continued  this  amateur  work  till 
she  died,  which  she  did  in  peace. 

It  is  very  touching  the  regard  the 
south-country  shepherds  have  to  their 
dogs.  Professor  Syme  one  day,  many 
years  ago,  when  living  in  Forres  Street, 
was  looking  out  of  his  window,  and  he 
saw  a  young  shepherd  striding  down 
North  Charlotte  Street,  as  if  making 
for  his  house ;  it  was  midsummer. 
The  man  had  his  dog  with  him,  and 
Mr.  Syme  noticed  that  he  followed  the 
dog,  and  not  it  him,  though  he  con- 
trived to  steer  for  the  house.  He  came, 
and  was  ushered  into  his  room  ;  he 
wished  advice  about  some  ailment,  and 
Mr.  Syme  saw  that  he  had  a  bit  of 
twine  around  the  dog's  neck,  which  he 
let  drop  out  of  his  hand  when  he 
entered  the  room.  He  asked  him  the 
meaning  of  this,  and  he  explained  that 


©ur  Dogs.  163 

the  magistrates  had  issued  a  mad-dog 
proclamation,  commanding  all  dogs  to 
be  muzzled  or  led  on  pain  of  death. 

1 '  And  why  do  you  go  about  as  I  saw 
you  did  before  you  came  in  to  me  ?  " 

"Oh,"  said  he,  looking  awkward,  "I 
dinna  want  Birkie  to  ken  he  was  tied." 
Where  will  you  find  truer  courtesy  and 
finer  feeling?  He  didn't  want  to  hurt 
Birkie's  feelings. 

Mr.  Carruthers  of  Inverness  told  me 
a  new  story  of  these  wise  sheep  dogs. 
A  butcher  from  Inverness  had  pur- 
chased some  sheep  at  Dingwall,  and 
giving  them  in  charge  to  his  dog  left 
the  road.  The  dog  drove  them  on, 
till  coming  to  a  toll,  the  toll-wife  stood 
before  the  drove  demanding  her  dues. 
The  dog  looked  at  her,  and,  jumping 
on  her  back,  crossed  his  forelegs  over 
her  arms.  The  sheep  passed  through, 
and  the  dog  took  his  place  behind 
them,  and  went  on  his  way. 
11 


lo4  Qui  £>O0b. 


RAB. 

Of  Rab  I  have  little  to  say,  indeed 
have  little  right  to  speak  of  him  as  one 
of  "our  dogs;"  but  nobody  will  be 
sorry  to  hear  anything  of  that  noble 
fellow.  Ailie,  the  day  or  two  after  the 
operation,  when  she  was  well  and 
cheery,  spoke  about  him,  and  said  she 
would  tell  me  fine  stories  when  I  came 
out,  as  I  promised  to  do,  to  see  her  at 
Howgate.  I  asked  her  how  James 
came  to  get  him.  She  told  me  that 
one  day  she  saw  Tames  coming  down 
from  Leadburn  with  the  cart  ;  he  had 
been  away  west,  getting  egg-s  and 
butter,  cheese  and  hens  for  Edinburgh. 
She  saw  he  was  in  some  trouble,  ?nd 


©ur  2)006.  165 

on  looking-,  there  was  what  she  thought 
a  young  calf  being  dragged,  or,  as  she 
called  it,  "haurled,"  at  the  back  of 
the  cart.  James  was  in  front,  and 
when  he  came  up,  very  warm  and  very 
angry,  she  saw  that  there  was  a  huge 
young  dog  tied  to  the  cart,  struggling 
and  pulling  back  with  all  his  might, 
and  as  she  said  "  lookin'  fearsom'." 
James,  who  was  out  of  breath  and 
temper,  being  past  his  time,  explained 
to  Ailie,  that  this  "muckle  brute  o'  a 
whalp "  had  been  worrying  sheep, 
and  terrifying  everybody  up  at  Sir 
George  Montgomery's  at  Macbie  Hill, 
and  that  Sir  George  had  ordered  him 
to  be  hanged,  which,  however,  was 
sooner  said  than  done,  as  "the  thief " 
showed  his  intentions  of  dying  hard. 
James  came  up  just  as  Sir  George  had 
sent  for  his  gun  and  as  the  dog  had 
more  than  once  shown  a  liking  for  him, 
he  said  he    ' '  wad  gie  him  a  chance  ;  " 


166  ©ur  £>O0S. 

and  so  he  tied  him  to  his  cart.  Young 
Rab,  fearing  some  mischief,  had  been 
entering  a  series  of  protests  all  the  way, 
and  nearly  strangling  himself  to  spite 
James  and  Jess,  besides  giving  Jess 
more  than  usual  to  do.  "I  wish  I  had 
let  Sir  George  pit  that  charge  into 
him,  the  thrawn  brute,"  said  James. 
But  Ailie  had  seen  that  in  his  foreleg 
there  was  a  splinter  of  wood,  which  he 
had  likely  got  when  objecting  to  be 
hanged,  and  that  he  was  miserably 
lame.  So  she  got  James  to  leave  him 
with  her,  and  go  straight  into  Edin- 
burgh. She  gave  him  water,  and  by 
her  woman's  wit  got  his  lame  paw 
under  a  door,  so  that  he  couldn't  sud- 
denly get  at  her,  then  with  a  quick 
firm  hand  she  plucked  out  the  splinter, 
and  put  in  an  ample  meal.  She  went 
in  some  time  after  taking  no  notice 
of  him,  and  he  came  limping  up,  and 
laid  his  great  jaws  in  her  lap  ;  from  that 


©ur  Doge.  167 

moment  they  were  "chief"  as  she  said, 
James  finding  him  mansuete  and  civil 
when  he  returned. 

She  said  it  was  Rab's  habit  to  make 
his  appearance  exactly  half  an  hour 
before  his  master,  trotting  in  full  of  im- 
portance, as  if  to  say,  "  He's  all  right, 
he'll  be  here."  One  morning  James 
came  without  him.  He  had  left  Edin- 
burgh very  early,  and  in  coming  near 
Auchindinny,  at  a  lonely  part  of  the 
road,  a  man  sprang  out  on  him,  and 
demanded  his  money.  James,  who 
was  a  cool  hand,  said,  "Weel  a  weel, 
let  me  get  it,"  and  stepping  back  he  said 
to  Rab,  "  Speak  till  him,  my  man."  In 
an  instant  Rab  was  standing  over  him, 
threatening  strangulation  if  he  stirred, 
James  pushed  on,  leaving  Rab  in 
charge  ;  he  looked  back  and  saw  that 
every  attempt  to  rise  was  summarily 
put  down.  As  he  was  telling  Ailie  the 
story,   up    came    Rab  with  that  great 


i68  Out  5)og3. 

swing  of  his.  It  turned  out  that 
the  robber  was  a  Howgate  lad,  the 
worthless  son  of  a  neighbor,  and  Rab 
knowing  him  had  let  him  cheaply  off; 
the  only  thing,  which  was  seen  by  a 
man  from  a  field  was,  that  before  let- 
ting him  rise,  he  quenched  {pro  tempore) 
the  fire  of  the  eyes  of  the  ruffian,  by 
a  familiar  Gulliverian  application  of 
Hydraulics,  which  I  need  not  further 
particularize.  James,  who  did  not 
know  the  way  to  tell  an  untruth,  or 
embellish  anything,  told  me  this  as 
what  he  called  ' '  a  fact  positeevely. " 


$ur  Boa*.  109 


WASP 

Was  a  dark  brindled  bull-terrier,  as 
pure  in  blood  as  Cruiser  or  Wild  Dr.y- 
rell.  She  was  brought  by  my  brother 
from  Otley,  in  the  West  Riding.  She 
was  very  handsome,  fierce,  and  gentle, 
with  a  small,  compact,  finely-shaped 
head,  and  a  pair  of  wonderful  eyes, — ■ 
as  full  of  fire  and  of  softness  as  Grisi's  ; 
indeed  she  had  to  my  eye  a  curious 
look  of  that  wonderful  genius — at  once 
wild  and  fond.  It  was  a  fine  sight  to 
see  her  on  the  prowl  across  Bowden 
Moor,  now  cantering  with  her  nose 
down,  now  gathered  up  on  the  top  of 
a  dyke,  and  with  erect  ears,  looking 
across  the  wild  like  a  moss-trooper  out 


170  ®ur  2)003. 

on  business,  keen  and  fell.  She  coul.i 
do  everything  it  became  a  dog  to  do, 
from  killing  an  otter  or  a  polecat,  to 
watching  and  playing  with  a  baby,  and 
was  as  docile  to  her  master  as  she 
was  surly  to  all  else.  She  was  not 
idarrelsome,  but  "  being  in,"  she 
would  have  pleased  Polonius  as  much, 
as  in  being  "  ware  of  entrance."  She 
was  never  beaten,  and  she  killed  on 
the  spot  several  of  the  country  bullies 
who  came  out  upon  her  when  follow- 
ing her  master  in  his  rounds.  She 
generally  sent  them  off  howling  with 
one  snap,  but  if  this  was  not  enough, 
she  made  an  end  of  it. 

But  it  was  as  a  mother  that  she 
shone  ;  and  to  see  the  gypsy,  Hagar- 
like  creature  nursing  her  occasional 
Ijhmael — playing  with  him,  and  fond- 
ling him  all  over,  teaching  his  teeth  to 
war,  and  with  her  eye  and  the  curl  of 
her  lip  daring  any  one  but  her  master 


©ur.  s>OQd.  1-jl 

to  touch  him,  was  like  seeing  Grisi 
watching  her  darling  "  Gennaro,"  who 
so  little  knew  why  and  how  much  she 
loved  him. 

Once  when  she  had  three  pups,  one 
of  them  died.  For  two  days  and 
nights  she  gave  herself  up  to  trying  to 
bring  it  to  life — licking  it  and  turning 
it  over  and  over,  growling  over  it,  and 
all  but  worrying  it  to  awake  it.  She 
paid  no  attention  to  the  living  two, 
gave  them  no  milk,  flung  them  away 
with  her  teeth,  and  would  have  killed 
them,  had  they  been  allowed  to  remain 
with  her.  She  was  as  one  possessed, 
and  neither  ate,  nor  drank,  nor  slept, 
was  heavy  and  miserable  with  her 
milk,  and  in  such  a  state  of  excitement 
that  no  one  could  remove  the  dead 
pup. 

Early  on  the  third  day  she  was  seen 
to  take  the  pup  in  her  mouth,  and  start 
across  the  fields  towards  the  Tweed, 


172  ©ur  Dogs. 

striding  like  a  race-horse — she  plunged 
in,  holding  up  her  burden,  and  at  the 
middle  of  the  stream  dropped  it  and 
swam  swiftly  ashore ;  then  she  stood 
and  watched  the  little  dark  lump  float- 
ing away,  bobbing  up  and  down  with 
the  current,  and  losing  it  at  last  far 
down,  she  made  her  way  home,  sought 
out  the  living  two,  devoured  them  with 
her  love,  carried  them  one  by  one  to 
her  lair,  and  gave  herself  up  wholly  to 
nurse  them  ;  you  can  fancy  her  mental 
and  bodily  happiness  and  relief  when 
they  were  pulling  away — and  theirs. 

On  one  occasion  my  brother  had 
lent  her  to  a  woman  who  lived  in  a 
lonely  house,  and  whose  husband  was 
away  for  a  time.  She  was  a  capital 
watch.  One  day  an  Italian  with  his 
organ  came — first  begging,  then  de- 
manding money — showing  that  he 
knew  she  was  alone,  and  that  he  meant 
to   help   himself,    if    she   didn't.     She 


©ur.  Dogs.  173 

threatened  to  "  lowse  the  dowg  ;  "  but 
as  this  was  Greek  to  him,  he  pushed 
on.  She  had  just  time  to  set  Wasp  at 
him.  It  was  very  short  work.  She 
had  him  by  the  throat,  pulled  him  and 
his  organ  down  with  a  heavy  crash, 
the  organ  giving  a  ludicrous  sort  of  cry 
of  musical  pain.  Wasp  thinking  this 
was  from  some  creature  within,  possi- 
bly a  whittret,  left  the  ruffian,  and  set 
to  work  tooth  and  nail  on  the  box. 
Its  master  slunk  off,  and  with  mingled 
fury  and  thankfulness  watched  her 
disembowelling  his  only  means  of  an 
honest  living.  The  woman  good- 
naturedly  took  her  off,  and  signed  to 
the  miscreant  to  make  himself  and  his 
remains  scarce.  This  he  did  with  a 
scowl ;  and  was  found  in  the  evening 
in  the  village,  telling  a  series  of  lies  to 
the  watchmaker,  and  bribing  him  with 
a  shilling  to  mend  his  pipes — "his 
kist  o'  whussels. " 


174  ©Ut  2>O06. 


JOCK 

Was  insane  from  his  birth  ;  at  first  an 
amabalis  insania,  but  ending-  in  mis- 
chief and  sudden  death.  He  was  an 
English  terrier,  fawn-colored ;  his 
mother's  name  Vamp  (Vampire),  and 
his  father's  Demon.  He  was  more 
properly  daft  than  mad ;  his  courage, 
muscularity,  and  prodigious  animal 
spirits  making  him  insufferable,  and 
never  allowing  one  sane  feature  of 
himself  any  chance.  No  sooner  was 
the  street  door  open,  than  he  was  throt- 
tling the  first  dog  passing,  bringing 
upon  himself  and  me  endless  grief. 
Cats  he  tossed  up  into  the  air,  and 
crushed  their  spines  as  they  fell.     Old 


ladies  he  upset  by  jumping  over  their 
heads  ;  old  gentlemen  by  running  be- 
tween their  legs.  At  home,  he  would 
think  nothing  of  leaping  through  the 
tea-things,  upsetting  the  urn,  cream, 
etc.,  and  at  dinner  the  same  sort  of 
thing.  I  believe  if  I  could  have  found 
time  to  thrash  him  sufficiently,  and  let 
him  be  a  year  older,  we  might  have 
kept  him ;  but  having  upset  an  Earl 
when  the  streets  were  muddy,  I  had 
to  part  with  him.  He  was  sent  to  a 
clergyman  in  the  island  of  Westray, 
one  of  the  Orkneys  ;  and  though  he 
had  a  wretched  voyage,  and  was  as 
sick  as  any  dog,  he  signalized  the  first 
moment  of  his  arrival  at  the  manse, 
by  strangling  an  ancient  monkey,  or 
"puggy,"  the  pet  of  the  minister, — 
who  was  a  bachelor, — and  the  wonder 
of  the  island.  Jock  henceforward  took 
to  evil  courses,  extracting  the  kidneys 
of  the  best  young  rams,  driving  whole 


176  ©ur  Bogs. 

hirsels  down  steep  places  into  the  sea, 
till  at  last  all  the  guns  ofWestray  were 
pointed  at  him,  as  he  stood  at  bay- 
under  a  huge  rock  on  the  shore,  and 
blew  him  into  space.  I  always  regret 
his  end,  and  blame  myself  for  sparing 
the  rod.     Of 


DUCHIE 

I  have  already  spoken  ;  her  oddities 
were  endless.  We  had  and  still  have 
a  dear  friend,  —  "Cousin  Susan"  she 
is  called  by  many  who  are  not  her 
cousins — a  perfect  lady,  and,  though 
hopelessly  deaf,  as  gentle  and  con- 
tented as  was  ever  Griselda  with  the 
full  use  of  her  ears  ;  quite  as  great  a 
pet,  in  a  word,  of  us  all  as  Duchie  was 
of  ours.  One  day  we  found  her 
mourning  the  death  of  a  cat,  a  great 


©Ill'  BO03.  177 

playfellow  of  the  Sputchard's,  and  her 
small  Grace  was  with  us  when  we 
were  condoling-  with  her  and  we  saw 
that  she  looked  very  wistfully  at 
Duchie.  I  wrote  on  the  slate,  "Would 
you  like  her?"  and  she  through  her 
tears  said,  "You  know  that  would 
never  do."  But  it  did  do.  We  left 
Duchie  that  very  night,  and  though 
she  paid  us  frequent  visits,  she  was 
Cousin  Susan's  for  life.  I  fear  indul- 
gence dulled  her  moral  sense.  She 
was  an  immense  happiness  to  her  mis- 
tress, whose  silent  and  lonely  days  she 
made  glad  with  her  oddity  and  mirth, 
And  yet  the  small  creature,  old,  tooth- 
less, and  blind,  domineered  over  her 
gentle  friend — threatening  her  some- 
times if  she  presumed  to  remove  the 
small  Fury  from  the  inside  of  her  oww 
bed,  into  which  it  pleased  her  to  creep. 
Indeed,  I  believe  it  is  too  true,  though 
it  was  inferred  only,  that  her  mistress 


178  ©ur  Dogs, 

and  friend  spent  a  great  part  of  a  win- 
ter night  in  trying  to  coax  her  dear 
little  ruffian  out  of  the  centre  of  the 
bed  One  day  the  cook  asked  what 
she  would  have  for  dinner  :  "  I  would 
like  a  mutton  chop,  but  then,  you 
know,  Duchie  likes  minced  veal  bet- 
ter !  "  The  faithful  and  happy  little 
creature  died  at  a  great  age,  of  natural 
decay. 

But  time  would  fail  me,  and  I  fear 
patience  would  fail  you,  my  reader, 
were  I  to  tell  you  of  Crab,  of  John 
Pyh,  of  Puck,  and  of  the  rest.  Crab, 
the  Mugger's  dog,  grave,  with  deep- 
set,  melancholy  eyes,  as  of  a  nobleman 
(say  the  Master  of  Ravenswood)  in 
disguise,  large  visaged,  shaggy,  indom- 
itable, come  of  the  pure  Piper  Allan's 
breed.  This  Piper  Allan,  you  must 
know,  lived  some  two  hundred  years 
ago    in    Cocquet   Water,    piping   like 


©uc  Bogs,  179 

Homer,  from  place  to  place,  and 
famous  not  less  for  his  dog-  than  for 
his  music,  his  news  and  his  songs. 
The  Earl  of  Northumberland,  of  his 
day  offered  the  piper  a  small  farm  for 
his  dog,  but  after  deliberating  for  a 
day  Allan  said,  "Na,  na,  ma  Lord, 
keep  yir  ferum  ;  what  wud  a  piper  do 
wi'  a  ferum  ? "  From  this  dog  de- 
scended Davidson  of  Hyndlee's  breed, 
the  original  Dandie-Dinmont,  and  Crab 
could  count  his  kin  up  to  him.  He 
had  a  great  look  of  the  Right  Honor- 
able Edward  Ellice,  and  had  much  of 
his  energy  and  wecht ;  had  there  been 
a  dog  House  of  Commons,  Crab  would 
have  spoken  as  seldom,  and  been  as 
great  a  power  in  the  house,  as  the 
formidable  and  faithful  time-out-of- 
mind  member  for  Coventry. 

John  Pym  was  a  smaller  dog  than 
Crab,  of  more  fashionable  blood,  being 

a  son  of  Mr.   Somner's  famous  Shbm, 
12 


180  ©ur  2)005. 

whose  father  and  brother  are  said  te 
have  been  found  dead  in  a  drain  into 
which  the  hounds  had  run  a  fox.  It 
had  three  entrances  :  the  father  was 
put  in  at  one  hole,  the  son  at  another, 
and  speedily  the  fox  bolted  out  at  the 
third,  but  no  appearance  of  the  little 
terriers,  and  on  digging,  they  were 
found  dead,  locked  in  each  other's 
jaws  ;  they  had  met,  and  it  being  dark 
and  there  being  no  time  for  explana- 
tions, they  had  throttled  each  other. 
John  was  made  of  the  same  sort  of 
stuff,  and  was  as  combative  and  vic- 
torious as  his  great  namesake,  and  not 
unlike  him  in  some  of  his  not  so  cred- 
itable qualities.  He  must,  I  think, 
have  been  related  to  a  certain  dog  to 
whom  "life  was  full  o'  sairiousness, " 
but  in  John's  case  the  same  cause  pro- 
duced an  opposite  effect.  John  was 
gay  and  light-hearted,  even  when 
there  was  not  "enufTof  ferhtin/5  which. 


©ur  2)og6.  i8p 

however,  seldom  happened,  there  be- 
ing a  market  every  week  in  Melrose, 
and  John  appearing  most  punctually* 
at  the  cross  to  challenge  all  comers, 
and  being  short-legged  he  inveigled 
every  dog  into  an  engagement  by  first 
attacking  him,  and  then  falling  down 
on  his  back,  in  which  posture  he  latterly 
fought  and  won  all  his  battles. 

What  can  I  say  of  Puck* — the  thor- 

*  In  The  Dog,  by  Stonehenge,  an  excellent 
book,  there  is  a  wood-cut  of  Puck,  and  "  Dr. 
Wm.  Brown's  celebrated  dog  John  Pym "  is 
mentioned.  Their  pedigrees  are  given — here  is 
Puck's,  which  shows  his  "strain  "  is  of  the  pure 
azure  blood. — "  Got  by  John  Pym,  out  of  Tib; 
bred  by  Purves  of  Leaderfoot ;  sire,  Old  Dandie, 
the  famous  dog  of  old  John  Stoddart  of  Selkirk 
—dam,  Whin."  How  Homeric  all  this  sounds  I 
I  cannot  help  quoting  what  follows — "  Some- 
times a  Dandie  pup  of  a  good  strain  may  appear 
not  to  be  game  at  an  early  age ;  but  he  should 
not  be  parted  with  on  this  account,  because 
many  of  them  do  not  show  their  courage  till 
nearly  two  years  old,  and  then  nothing  can  beat 


182  ©ur  2>ogs. 

oughbred  —  the  simple-hearted  —  the 
purloinerof  eggs  warm  from  the  hen — 
theflutterer  of  all  manner  of  Volscians — 
the  bandy-legged,  dear,  old,  dilapi- 
dated buffer?  I  got  him  from  my 
brother,  and  only  parted  with  him  be 
cause  William's  stock  was  gone.  He 
had  to  the  end  of  life  a  simplicity 
which  was  quite  touching.  One  sum- 
mer day — a  dog-day — when  all  dogs 
found  straying  were  hauled  away  to 
the  police-office,  and  killed  off  in  twen- 
ties with  strychnine,  I  met  Puck  trot- 
ting along  Princes  Street  with  a  police- 
man, a  rope  round  his  neck,  he  looking 
up  in  the  fatal,  official,  but  kindly  coun- 
tenance in  the  most  artless  and  cheer- 
ful manner,  wagging  his  tail  and  trot- 
ting along.     In  ten  minutes  he  would 

them  ;  this  apparent  softness  arising,  as  I  sus* 
pect  from  kindness  of  heart'''' — a  suspicion,  my 
dear  "  Stonehenge,"  which  is  true,  and  shows 
your  own  "  kindness  of  heart,'*  as  well  as  sense. 


I 


Our  &0Q6.  1S3 

iiave  been  in  the  next  world  ;  for  I  am 
one  of  those  who  believe  dogs  have  a 
next  world,  and  why  not  ?  Puck  ended 
his  days  as  the  best  dog  in  Roxburgh- 
shire.    Placide  quiescas  / 


184  ©UC  ®QQd. 


DICK 

Still  lives,  and  long  may  he  live  !  A: 
he  was  never  born,  possibly  he  maj 
never  die  ;  be  it  so,  he  will  miss  us 
when  we  are  gone.  I  could  say  much 
•of  him,  but  agree  with  the  lively  and 
admirable  Dr.  Jortin,  when,  in  his  dedi- 
cation of  his  Remarks  on  Ecclesiasiical 
History  to  the  then  (1752)  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury,  he  excuses  himself  for 
not  following  the  modern  custom  of 
praising  his  Patron,  by  reminding  his 
Grace  "  that  it  was  a  custom  amongst 
the  ancients,  not  to  sacrifice  to  heroes 
till  after  sunset."  I  defer  my  sacrifice 
till  Dick's  sun  is  set. 

I  think  every  family  should  have  a 
dog  ;  it  is  like  having  a  perpetual  baby  : 


©ur  £>O0S.  185 

It  is  the  plaything  and  crony   of  the 

whole  house.  It  keeps  them  all  young. 
All  unite  upon  Dick.  And  then  he  tells 
no  tales,  betrays  no  secrets,  never 
sulks,  asks  no  troublesome  questions, 
never  gets  into  debt,  never  coming 
down  late  for  breakfast,  or  coming 
in  through  his  Chubb  too  early  to  bed 
— is  always  ready  for  a  bit  of  fun,  lies 
in  wait  for  it,  and  you  may,  if  choleric, 
to  your  relief,  kick  him  instead  of 
some  one  else,  who  would  not  take 
it  so  meekly,  and,  moreover,  would 
certainly  not,  as  he  does,  ask  your 
pardon  for  being  kicked. 

Never  put  a  collar  on  your  dog — it 
only  gets  him  stolen  ;  give  him  only 
one  meal  a  day,  and  let  that,  as  Dame 
Dorothy,  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  wife, 
would  say,  be  ' '  rayther  under. "  Wash 
him  once  a  week,  and  always  wash 
the  soap  out ;  and  let  him  be  carefully 
combed  and  brushed  twice  a  week. 


186  ©ur  2)oqs. 

By  the  by,  I  was  wrong  in  saying 
that  it  was  Burns  who  said  Man  is  the 
God  of  the  Dog — he  got  it  from  Bacon's 
Essay  on  Atheism, 


QUEEN  MARY'S  CHILD-GARDEN. 


Queen    Mary's    Child=Qar- 
den. 

If  any  one  wants  a  pleasure  that 
is  sure  to  please,  one  over  which  he 
needn't  growl  the  sardonic  beatitude  of 
the  great  Dean,  let  him,  when  the 
Mercury  is  at  "Fair,"  take  the  nine 
a.m.  train  to  the  North  and  a  return- 
ticket  for  Callander,  and  when  he  ar- 
rives at  Stirling,  let  him  ask  the  most 
obliging  and  knowing  of  station- 
masters  to  telegraph  to  "the  Dread- 
nought "  for  a  carriage  to  be  in  waiting. 
When  passing  Dunblane  Cathedral,  let 
him  resolve  to  write  to  the  Scotsman, 
advising  the  removal  of  a  couple  of 
shabby  trees  which  obstruct  the  view 

189 


190  i&ueen  jfllbarB's  CbtlD=GarDcn. 

of  that  beautiful  triple  end  window 
which  Mr.  Ruskin  and  everybody  else 
admires,  and  by  the  time  he  has  written 
this  letter  in  his  mind,  and  turned  the 
sentences  to  it,  he  will  find  himself  at 
Callander  and  the  carriage  all  ready. 
Giving  the  order  for  the  Port  of  Mon- 
teith,  he  will  rattle  through  this  hard- 
featured,  and  to  our  eye  comfortless 
village,  lying  ugly  amid  so  much 
grandeur  and  beauty,  and  let  him  stop 
on  the  crown  of  the  bridge,  and  fill 
his  eyes  with  the  perfection  of  the  view 
up  the  Pass  of  Leny — the  Tei.th  lying 
diffuse  and  asleep,  as  if  its  heart  were 
in  the  Highlands  and  it  were  loth  to 
go,  the  noble  Ben  Ledi  imaged  in  its 
broad  stream.  Then  let  him  make  his 
way  across  a  bit  of  pleasant  moorland 
— flushed  with  maiden-hair  and  white 
with  cotton  grass,  and  fragrant  with 
the  Orchis  conopsia,  well  deserving  its 
epithet  odoratissima. 


Queen  dfoarg's  CbUD=(3arDen.    191 

He  will  see  from  the  turn  of  the  hill- 
side the  Blair  of  Drummond  waving 
with  corn  and  shadowed  with  rich 
woods,  where  eighty  years  ago  there 
was  a  black  peat-moss  ;  and  far  off,  on 
the  horizon,  Damyat  and  the  Touch 
Fells  ;  and  at  his  side  the  little  loch  of 
Ruskie,  in  which  he  may  see  five  High- 
land cattle,  three  tawny  brown  and 
two  brindled,  standing  in  the  still 
water — themselves  as  still,  all  except 
their  switching  tails  and  winking  ears 
— the  perfect  images  of  quiet  enjoy- 
ment. By  this  time  he  will  have  come 
in  sight  of  the  Lake  of  Monteith,  set  in 
its  woods,  with  its  magical  shadows 
and  soft  gleams.  There  is  a  loveli- 
ness, a  gentleness  and  peace  about  it 
more  like  "lone  St.  Mary's  Lake,"  or 
Derwent  Water,  than  of  any  of  its 
sister  lochs.  It  is  lovely  rather  than 
beautiful,  and  is  a  sort  of  gentle  pre- 
lude, in  the  minor  key,  to  the  coming 


192   ^ueen  /IfcarE's  CbilD*GacDen. 

glories  and  intenser  charms   of  Loch 
Ard  and  the  true  Highlands  beyond. 

You  are  now  at  the  Port,  and  have 
passed  the  secluded  and  cheerful 
manse,  and  the  parish  kirk  with  its 
graves,  close  to  the  lake,  and  the  proud 
aisle  of  the  Grahams  of  Gartmore 
washed  by  its  waves.  Across  the  road 
is  the  modest  little  inn,  a  Fisher's 
Tryst.  On  the  unruffled  water  lie 
several  islets,  plump  with  rich  foliage, 
brooding  like  great  birds  of  calm. 
You  somehow  think  of  them  as  on,  not 
in  the  lake,  or  like  clouds  lying  in  a 
nether  sky — **  like  ships  waiting  for  the 
wind."  You  get  a  coble,  and  zyauld 
old  Celt,  its  master,  and  are  rowed 
across  to  Inchmahome,  the  Isle  of  Rest 
Here  you  find  on  landing  huge  Spanish 
chestnuts,  one  lying  dead,  others  stand- 
ing stark  and  peeled,  like  gigantic  ant- 
lers, and  others  flourishing  in  their 
viridis  senectus,  and  in  a  thicket  of  wood 


Queen  /foar^'s  Cbil£>s=(3aroen.    193 

you  see  the  remains  of  a  monastery 
of  great  beauty,  the  design  and 
workmanship  exquisite.  You  wander 
through  the  ruins,  overgrown  with 
ferns  and  Spanish  filberts,  and  old 
fruit-trees,  and  at  the  corner  of  the 
old  monkish  garden  you  come  upon 
one  of  the  strangest  and  most  touch- 
ing sights  you  ever  saw — an  oval 
space  of  about  18  feet  by  12,  with  the 
remains  of  a  double  row  of  boxwood 
all  round,  the  plants  of  box  being 
about  fourteen  feet  high,  and  eight  or 
nine  inches  in  diameter,  healthy,  but 
plainly  of  great  age. 

What  is  this  ?  it  is  called  in  the  guide- 
books Queen  Mary's  Bower  ;  but  be- 
sides its  being  plainly  not  in  the  least 
a  bower,  what  could  the  little  Queen, 
then  five  years  old,  and  "fancy  free," 
do  with  a  bower  ?  It  is  plainly,  as  was, 
we  believe,  first  suggested  by  our  keen- 
sighted   and     diagnostic   Professor   oi 


i94   i&ueen  /foars's  CbilD=(3art>en. 

Clinical  Surgery,*  the  Child-Queen's 
Garden,  with  her  little  walk,  and  its 
rows  of  boxwood,  left  to  themselves  for 
three  hundred  years.  Yes,  without 
doubt,  "here  is  that  first  garden  of  her 
simpleness."  Fancy  the  little,  lovely 
royal  child,  with  her  four  Marys,  her 
playfellows,  her  child  maids  of  honor, 
with  their  little  hands  and  feet,  and 
their  innocent  and  happy  eyes,  patter- 
ing about  that  garden  all  that  time  ago, 
laughing,  and  running,  and  gardening 
as  only  children  do  and  can.  As  is  well 
known,  Mary  was  placed  by  her  mother 
in  this  Isle  of  Rest  before  sailing  from 
the  Clyde  for  France.     There  is  some- 

*  The  same  seeing  eye  and  understanding  mind, 
when  they  were  eighteen  years  of  age,  discovered 
and  published  the  Solvent  of  Caoutchouc,  for 
which  a  patent  was  taken  out  afterwards  by  the 
famous  Mackintosh.  If  the  young  discoverer 
had  secured  the  patent,  he  might  have  made  a 
fortune  as  large  as  his  present  reputation — I 
don't  suppose  he  much  regrets  t&at  he  didn't. 


Queen  dfcarB's  CbUD*(3arDen*   195 

thing  ''that  tirls  the  heartstrings  a'  to 
the  life  "  in  standing  and  looking  on  this 
unmistakable  living  relic  of  that  strange 
and  pathetic  old  time.  Were  we  Mr. 
Tennyson,  we  would  write  an  Idyll  of 
that  child  Queen,  in  that  garden  of  hers, 
eating  her  bread  and  honey — getting 
her  teaching  from  the  holy  men, 
the  monks  of  old,  and  running 
off  in  wild  mirth  to  her  garden  and 
her  flowers,  all  unconscious  of  the 
black,  lowering  thunder-cloud  on  Ben 
t.omond's  shoulder. 

*  Oh,  blessed  vision !  happy  child  I 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild  ; 
I  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 
Of  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 
I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thf 

guest, 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality. 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover  I  never  rest 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 
Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ?M 


196   (Slueen  flbarg's  GbilD=<5aroen. 

You  have  ample  time  to  linger  there 
amid 

"  The    gleams,   the    shadows,  and    the  peace 
profound," 

and  get  your  mind  informed  with  quiet- 
ness and  beauty,  and  fed  with  thoughts 
of  other  years,  and  of  her  whose  story, 
like  Helen  of  Troy's,  will  continue  to 
move  the  hearts  of  men  as  long  as  the 
gray  hills  stand  round  about  that  gentle 
lake,  and  are  mirrored  at  evening  in  its 
depths.  You  may  do  and  enjoy  all 
this,  and  be  in  Princes  Street  by  nine 
p.m.  ;  and  we  wish  we  were  as  sure  of 
many  things  as  of  your  saying,  '  Yes, 
this  is  a  pleasure  that  has  pleased,  and 
will  please  again  ;  this  was  some- 
thing expected  which  did  not  #*i»ap- 
point 


Queen  /IRarg'6  CbUD=<3arDen.    197 

There  is  another  garden  of  Queen 
Mary's,  which  may  still  be  seen,  and 
which  has  been  left  to  itself  like  that  in 
the  Isle  of  Rest.  It  is  in  the  grounds 
at  Chatsworth,  and  is  moated,  walled 
round,  and  raised  about  fifteen  feet 
above  the  park.  Here  the  Queen, 
when  a  prisoner  under  the  charge  of 
"Old  Bess  of  Hardwake,"  was  al- 
lowed to  walk  without  any  guard. 
How  differem  the  two  !  ana  how 
different  she  who  took  her  pleasure  in 
them  ! 


Lines  written  on  the  steps  of  a  small  moated 
garden  at  Chatsworth,  called 


"  QUEEN  MARY'S  BOWER, 

*  Ths  moated  bower  is  wild  and  drear 
And  sad  the  dark  yew's  shade  \ 
The  flowers  which  bloom  in  silence  here 
In  silence  also  fade 


kq8   Ciueen  d&ats's  CbilD*(3arDen. 

**  The  woodbine  and  the  light  wild  rose 
Float  o'er  the  broken  wall  ; 
And  here  the  mournful  nightshade  blows. 
To  note  the  garden's  fall. 

*  Where  once  a  princess  wept  her  woes, 
The  bird  of  night  complains  ; 
And  sighing  trees  the  tale  disclose 
They  learnt  from  Mary's  strains. 

■  A.  EL' 


TME    EN  JX 


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10  The  Marcus  Aurelius  Year  Book. 


Altemus'  In  His  Name  Series 
Gems  of   religious  thought   for  birthday 
and  holiday  souvenirs.     Exquisite  bindings 
Price,  25  cents. 

FRANCES  RIDLEY  HAVERGAL. 

. .     1  My  King. 

. .     2  Royal  Bounty  for  the  King's  Guests. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  In  His  Name  Scries  Continued 

„.  3  Royal  Commandments  for  the  King's 
Servants. 

. .  4  Royal  Invitation  for  the  King's  Chil- 
dren. 

. .  5  Loyal  Responses  for  the  King's  Min- 
strels. 

. .     6  Little  Pillows. 

. .     7  Morning  Bells. 

..    8  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use. 

PHILLIPS  BROOKS. 

o.  9  The  Christ  in  Whom  Christians  Be- 
lieve. 

. .  io  True  Liberty. 

„ .  ii  The  Beauty  of  a  Life  of  Service. 

. .  12  Thought  and  Action. 

..  42  The  Duty  of  the  Christian  Business 
Man. 

DWIGHT  L.  MOODY. 

. .  13  How  to  Study  the  Bible. 

ANDREW  MURRAY. 

..   14  Lord,  Teach  Us  to  Pray. 

..   15  In  My  Name. 

..  41  Have  Faith  in  God. 

HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

„„  16  The  Greatest  Thing  in  the  World. 

.  „  17  Eternal  Life. 

. .  18  What  Is  a  Christian  ?  The  Study  of 
the  Bible;  A  Talk  on  Books. 

..  19  The  Changed  Life. 

. .  20  First  !    A  Talk  with  Boys. 

. .  45  How  to  Learn  How. 

..  46  Pax  Vobiscum. 

MARTIN  LUTHER. 

. .  21  God's  Word  and  God's  Work. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 


Altemus'  In  His  Name  Series  Continued 
THOMAS  ARNOLD. 
. .  22  Faith. 

WILLIAM  E.  GLADSTONE. 
. .  23  Tfe  Creation  Story. 
ASHTON  OXEXDEX. 
. .  24  The  Message  of  Comfort. 
DEAN  STAXLEY. 

. .  25  The    Lord's    Prayer   and   the   Tex    Com- 
mandments. 
ELISABETH  ROBIXSOX  SCOVIL. 
..  26  Hymns  of  Praise  and  Gladness. 
. .  27  Morning   Strength. 
. .  28  Evening  Comfort*. 
HANNAH  WHITALL  SMITH. 
. .  29  Difficulties. 
REV.  F.  B.  MEYER. 
. .  30  The  Heavenly  Vision. 
..  31  Words  of  Help  for  Christian  Girts 
HESBA  STRETTOX. 
. .  32  Jessica's  First  Prayer. 
..  33  Jessica's  Mother. 
R.  W.  CHURCH. 
. .  34  The  Message  of  Peace. 
ROBERT  F.  HORTOX. 
. .  35  The  Memoirs  of  Jesus. 
HEXRY  WARD  BEECHER. 
. .  36  Industry  and  Idleness. 
..  37  Popular  Amusements. 
. .  38  Twelve  Causes  of  Dishonesty. 
E.  S.  ELLIOT. 
..  39  Expectation  Corner. 
J.  R.  MILLER. 
. .  40  The  Old  and  the  New. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  In  His  Name  Series  Continued 

DR.  A.  T.  PIERSOX. 

c.  43  The  Second  Coming  of  Our  Lord. 

EDITH  V.  BRADT. 

..  44  For  the  Quiet  Hour. 


Altemus' 

Illustrated  Banbury  Cross  Series 
This  is  a  series  of  old  favorites — im- 
mortal tales  of  which  children  never  tire. 
Illustrated  including  a  frontispiece  in  col- 
ors. Half  vellum,  illuminated  sides.  Price, 
50  cents  each. 

1  Old  Mother  Hubbard. 

2  Chicken  Little. 

3  Blue  Beard. 

4  Tom  Thumb. 

5  The  Three  Bears. 

6  The  White  Cat. 

7  The  Fairy  Giets. 

8  Snow  White  and  Rose  Red. 

9  Aladdin. 
10  Ali  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves. 


Altemus' 

Love  and  Friendship  Series 
Gems  from  the  writings  of  eminent  au- 
thors and  essayists.     Appropriate  gifts  for 
holidays      and      anniversaries.        Exquisite 
bindings.     Price,  25  cents. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

1  Love  and  Friendship. 
. .    2  Intellect. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  Love  and  Friendship   Series   Continued 

. .     3  Self-Reliance. 

...     4  Manners. 

. .     5  Character. 

. .     6  Spiritual  Law. 

FREDERIC  HARRISON. 

. .     7  The  Use  and  Misuse  of  Books. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 

. .     8  The  Tribune  Primer. 

EMMA  GELLIBRAXD. 

. .     9  J.  Coll. 

. .   io  Max  and  Gerald. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

..ii  S-.veetness  and  Light. 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

. .    12  Independence  Day. 

SIR  JOHN  LUBBOCK. 

. .   13  Art,  Poetry  and  Music. 

. .   14  The  Beauties  of  Nature. 

Ti:e  Choice  of  Books. 
. .   16  The  Destiny  of  Man. 
RUDYARD  KIPLING. 
. .   17  The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 
. .  18  The  Three  Musketeers. 
. .   19  On  the  City  Wall. 
. .  20  The  Man  Who  Was. 
. .  21  The  Judgment  of  Dungara. 
. .  22  The  Courting  of  Dinah   Shadd, 
. .  23  On  Green  how  Hill. 
WASHINGTON  IRVING. 
. .  24  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
. .  25  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
. .  26  Old  Christmas. 
JOHN  RUSKIN. 
. .  27  Work. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  Love  and  Friendship   Series   Continued 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "LADDIE." 

. .  28  Miss  Toosey's  Mission. 

. .  29  Laddie. 

MAURICE  HEWLETT. 

. .  30  A  Sacrifice  at  Prato. 

. .  31  Quattrocentisteria. 

RALPH  CONNOR. 

. .  32  Beyond  the  Marshes. 

W.  A.  FRASER. 

. .  2>3  Sorrow. 


Altemus'  Bo-Peep  Series 
Entirely  new  editions  of  the  most  popular 
books  for  young  people.  Each  volume  con- 
taining about  seventy-five  illustrations,  in- 
cluding full-page  colored  pictures.  Half 
vellum,  illuminated  sides.     Price,  50  cents, 

1  Little  Bo- Peep. 

2  Where  Are  You  Going,  My  Pretty  Maid? 

3  Polly  Put  the  Kettle  On. 

4  Mary,  Mary,  Quite  Contrary. 

5  Ride  a  Cock-Horse. 

6  Little  Miss  Muffett. 

7  Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence. 

8  Mary  Had  a  Little  Lamb. 


Altemus' 

Little  Men  and  Women  Series 
A  new  Series  for  young  people,  by  the 
best  known  English  and  American  authors. 
Profusely  illustrated.  Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.00. 
..     1  Black  Beauty.     Anna  Sewell. 
...    2  Hiawatha.    Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 


Altemus'  Little  Men  and  Women  Series  Continued 

3  Alice  in  Wonderland  and  Through  the 
Looking  Glass.    Lewis  Carroll. 

4  Paul  axd  Virginia.    Saint e  Pierre. 

5  Galopoff,     the     Talking     Pony.      Tudor 
lenks. 

6  Gypsy,  the  Talking  Dog.     Tudor  Jenks. 

7  Caps  and  Capers.     Gabrielle  E.  Jackson. 

8  Doughnuts   and   Diplomas.      Gabrielle   E. 
Jackson. 

g  For  Prey  and  Spoils.     Frederick  A.  Ober. 
io  Tommy    Foster's    Adventures.     Frederick 

A.  Ober. 
ii  Tales    from     Shakespeare.      Charles    and 

Mary  Lamb. 

12  Ellis's    History  of  United   States.     Ed- 
ward  S.  Ellis,  A.  M. 

13  Ellis's  History  of  England.     Edward  S. 
Eilis.  A.  M. 

14  Ellis's    History   of    France.      Edward   S. 
Ellis.  A.  M. 

15  Ellis's  History  of  Germany.     Edward  S. 
Ellis,  A.  M. 

16  A  Little  Rough  Rider.    Tudor  Jenks. 

17  Another    Year    with    Denise    and    Xed 
Toodles.     Gabrielle  E.  Jackson. 

18  Poor  Boys'  Chances.     John  Habberton. 

19  Sea  Kings  and  Naval  Heroes.     Hartwell 
James. 

20  Polly    Perkins's   Adventures.     E.   Louise 
Liddell. 

21  Folly  in  Fairyland.     Carolyn  Wells. 

22  Folly  in  ti-ie  Forest.     Carolyn   Wells. 

23  The     Little     Lady — Her     Book.      All 
Bigelow  Paine. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus' 
Illustrated     Children     of    the    Bible 
Series 
new  and  copyrighted. 
Each  story  is  complete  by  itself,  and  fol- 
lows the  Bible  narrative.     Half-vellum,  dec- 
crated  in  gold  and  colors.    Price,  25  cents. 
. .     1  The    Boy    Who    Obeyed.     The    Story    of 
Isaac. 

2  The  Farmer  Boy.     The  Story  of  Jacob. 

3  The  Favorite  Son.     The  Story  of  Joseph. 

4  The  Adopted  Son.     The  Story  of  Moses. 

5  The  Boy  General.     The  Story  of  Joshua. 

6  The  Boy  at  School.    The  Story  of  Samuel. 

7  The  Shepherd  Boy.    The  Story  of  David. 

8  The  Boy  Who  Would  be  King.'    The  Story 
of  Absalom. 

9  The  Captive  Boy.     The  Story  of  Daniel. 
10  The  Boy  Jesus. 


Altemus' 
Young   Folks'   Puzzle    Pictures    Series 
A  new  series  for  young  people,  includ- 
ing numerous  Puzzle  Pictures  by  the  best 
artists.     Full  cloth,  illuminated  cover  des- 
ign.   Price,  50  cents. 
. .     1  Mother  Goose's  Puzzle  Pictures. 
. .     2  The  Tale  of  Peter  Rabbit  with   Puzzle 

Pictures. 
. .     3  Animal  Tales,  with   Puzzle  Pictures. 
. .     4  The     Night     Before     Christmas,     with 

Puzzle  Pictures. 
..     5  Dog  Tales.  Cat  Tales  and  other  Tales 

with  Puzzle  Pictures. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus' 

Illustrated  Beautiful  Stories  Series 

new  and  copyrighted. 

Stories  from  the  Bible  told  in  a  manner 
that  will  be  readily  understood  and  followed 
by  young  readers.  Profusely  illustrated. 
Half-vellum,  decorated  in  gold  and  colors. 
Price,  25  cents. 

1  The  First  Christmas. 

2  The  First  Easter. 

3  Once  in  Seven  Years. 

4  With  Hammer  and  Naii. 

5  Five  Kings  in  a  Cave. 

6  The  Wisest  Man. 

7  A   Farmer's    Wife. 

8  The  Man  Who  Did  Not  Die. 

9  When  Iron  Did  Swim. 
10  What  is  Sweeter  Than  Honey? 


Altemus'  Mother  Stories  Series 

An  entirely  new  series  including  the  best 
stories  that  mothers  can  tell  their  children. 
Handsomely  printed  and  profusely  illus- 
trated.    Ornamental  cloth.     Price,  50  cents. 

. .     1  Mother  Stories.     89  illustrations. 

. .     2  Mother  Nursery  Rhymes  and  Tales.    135 
illustrations. 
3  Mother  Fairy  Tales.     117  illustrations. 

. .     4  Mother  Nature  Stories.     97  illustrations. 

. .     5  Mother  Stories  from  the  Old  Testament. 
45  illustrations. 

. .     6  Mother    Stories    from    the    New    Testa- 
ment.    45  illustrations. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 


Altemus'   Illustrated 

Dainty  Series  of  Choice  Gift  Books 
Bound  in  half-white  vellum,  illuminated 
sides,  with  numerous  illustrations. 

Price,  50  cents. 
. .     1  The  Silver  Buckle.     M.  Nataline  Crump- 
ton. 

.     2  Charles    Dickens'    Children    Stories. 

.     3  The  Children's  Shakespeare. 

.     4  Young    Robin    Hood.      G.    Manville   Fcnn. 

.     5  Honor  Bright.     Mary  C.   Rowsell. 

.     6  The  Voyage  of  the  Mary  Adair.    Frances 
E.  Cromfton. 

.     7  The  Kingfisher's  Egg.     L.  T.  Meade. 

.     8  Tattine.    Ruth  Ogden. 

.     9  The   Doings   of   a    Dear   Little    Couple. 
Mary  D.  Brine. 

.   10  Our  Soldier  Boy.     G.  Manville  Fenn. 

.   11  The  Little  Skipper.     G.  Manville  Fenn. 

.  12  Little  Gervaise  anb  other   Stories. 

.   13  The    Christmas    Fairy.       John     Strange 
W inter. 

.  14  Molly   the    Drummer    Boy.      Harriet    T. 
Comstock. 

.  15  How    a     "Dear     Little     Couple"     Went 
Abroad.     Mary  D.  Brine. 


Altemus' 
Illustrated  R.ose-Carnatiox  Series 
A  series  of  charming  gift  books.     Illu- 
minated sides  with  numerous  half-tone  illus- 
trations.    Price,  50  cents. 
. .     1  The  Rose-Carnation.    Frances  E.  Cromp- 

ton. 
. .    2  Mother's  Little  Man.    Mary  D.  Brine. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'      Illustrated     Rose-Carnation      Series 
Continued 

.     3  Little  Swan  Maidens.    Frances  E.  Cromp- 

ton. 
.     4  Little  Lady  Val.     Evelyn   Everett  Green. 
.     5  A  Young  Hero.     G.  Manville  Fenn. 
.     6  Queen  of  the  Day.    L.  T.  Meade. 
,     7  That  Little  French  Baby.    John  Strange 

Whiter. 
.     8  The  Powder  Monkey.     G.  Manville  Fenn. 
.     g  The  Doll  that  Talked.     Tudor  Jenks. 
.   io  What  Charlie  Found  to  Do.    Amanda  M, 

Douglas. 


Altemus' 
Illustrated  One- Syllable  Series 

for  young  readers 

Embracing  popular  works  arranged  for 
the  young  folks  in  words  of  one  syllable. 
Profusely  illustrated. 

Handsomely  bound  in  cloth  and  gold, 
with  illuminated  sides.     Price,  50  cents. 

1  /Esop's  Fables. 

2  A  Child's  Life  of  Christ. 

4  The  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

5  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's   Progress. 

6  Swiss  Family  Robinson. 

7  Gulliver's  Travels. 
9  A  Child's  Story  of  the  Old  Testament. 

10  A  Child's  Story  of  the  New  Testament. 

11  Bible  Stories  for  Little  Children. 

12  The  Story  of  Jesus. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus' 

Illustrated  Wee  Books  tor  Wee  Folks 

Charming  stories  beautifully  illustrated 
in  color  and  daintily,  yet  durably  bound. 
Cloth.     Price,  50  cents. 

1  Nursery  Tales. 

2  Nursery  Rhymes. 

3  The  Story  of  Peter  Rabbit. 

4  The  Foolish  Fox. 

5  Three  Little  Pigs. 

6  The  Robber  Kitten. 


Altemus'  Mother  Goose  Series 

Entirely  new  editions  of  the  most  popular 
books  for  young  people.  Each  volume  con- 
taining about  seventy-five  illustrations,  in- 
cluding full-page  colored  pictures.  Half 
vellum,  illuminated  sides.     Price,  50  cents. 

. .     1  Aladdin  ;  or,  The  Wonderful  Lamp. 
. .     2  Our  Animal  Friends. 
. .     3  Beauty  and  the  Beast. 
. .     4  Bird  Stories  for  Little  People. 
. .     5  Cinderella  ;   or,  The  Little  Glass   Slip- 
per. 
. .     6  The  House  that  Jack  Built. 
. .     7  Jack  and  the  Bean- Stalk. 
. .     8  Jack  the  Giant-Killer. 
. .     9  Little  Red  Riding  Hood. 
. .   10  Puss  in  Boots. 
..11  The  Sleeping  Beauty. 
..   12  Who  Killed  Cock  Robin? 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus' 
Boys  and  Girls  Booklovers  Series 
A   new    illustrated    series   of   books    for 
young    people,    by    authors    of    established 
reputation.  Price,  50  cents. 

1  Bumper   and   Baby   John.     Anna   Chajnn 
Ray. 
. .     2  The  Story  ce  the  Golden   Fleece.     An- 
drew Lang. 
. .     3  The  Wanderings  oe  Joe  and  Little  Em. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine. 
..     4  Witchery  Ways.     Amos  R.  Wells. 
. .     5  Robbie's  Bible  Stories.     Gertrude  Smith. 
. .     6  Baby  Bible  Stories.     Gertrude  Smith. 
.     7  Delight.    Gertrude  Smith. 


Altemus" 
Illustrated  Golden  Days  Series 
An  entirely  new  series  of  copyright  books, 
effectively  illustrated.    Bound  in  cloth,  dec- 
crated.    Price,  50  cents. 

1  An  Easter  Lily.     Amanda  M.  Douglas. 

2  The  Pearl  Ring.     Mary  E.  Bradley. 

3  Blitzen,  The  Conjurer.     Frank  M.  Bick- 
11  ell. 

4  An  Unintentional   Patriot.     Harriet  T. 
Comstock. 

5  A  Shining  Mark.     William  E.  Barton. 

6  Miss   Appolina's   Choice.     Ellen   Douglas 
D  eland. 

7  A  Boy  Lieutenant.    F.  S.  Bowley. 

8  Polly  and  the  Other  Girl.    Sophie  Sweti. 

9  Herm  and  I.     Myron  B.  Gibson. 

10  Sam.     M.  G.  McClelland. 

11  Bobbie.     Kate  Langley  Bosher. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  Classics  Series 

A  selection  of  the  works  of  standard 
authors  handsomely  printed  and  substan- 
tially bound  in  cloth.  Price,  40  cents ;  full 
calf,  boxed,  $1.00. 

1  Bab  Ballads  and  Savoy  Songs.    Gilbert. 

2  Battle  of  Life,  The.    Dickens. 

3  Biglow  Papers,  The.    Lowell. 

4  Camille.    Alexandre  Dumas,  Jr. 

5  Carmen.     M crime e. 

6  Child's  Garden  of  Verses,  A.    Stevenson. 

7  Chimes,  The.    Dickens. 

8  Christmas  Carol,  A.    Dickens. 

9  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  The.    Dickens. 

10  Crown  ©f  Wild  Olives,  The.    Ruskin. 

11  Days  with   Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.     Ad- 
dison. 

12  Endymion.     Keats. 

13  Evangeline.     Lengfellow. 

14  Fanchon.     Sand. 

15  Greatest    Thing    in    the    World,    The. 
Drummond. 

16  Haunted  Man,  The.     Dickens. 

17  In  Memgriam.     Tennyson. 

18  Kavanagh.    Longfellow. 

19  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.    Macaulay. 

20  Longfellow's  Poems.     Part  i. 

21  Longfellow's  Poems.     Part  2. 

22  Man  Without  a  Country,  The.     Hale. 

23  Marmiqn.    Scott. 

24  Milton's  Poems. 

25  Peter  Schlemihl.     Chamisso. 

26  Poe's  Poems. 

27  Princess,  The.  and  Maud.     Tennyson. 
2S  Rab  and  His  Friends.     Brown. 

2Q    RUBAIYAT    OF    OMAR    KHAYYAM. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  Classics  Series — Continued 

30  Sesame  axd  Lilies.     Raskin. 

31  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.    Goldsmith. 
,  32  Undine.    Fouque. 

,  S3  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

Coleridge. 
.  34  Gold   Dust. 
,    55  Daily  Food. 


Altemus'  Cherrycroft  Series 

A  new  Series  for  young  people,  including 
stories  by  the  best  and  most  popular  authors 
of  the  day.  Profusely  illustrated  and  hand- 
somely bound.    Price,  50  cents. 

. .     1  Amy    Dora's    Amusing    Day.     Frank   M. 
Bic knell 

2  A  Gourd  Fiddle.    Grace  MacGewan  Cooke. 

3  Sonny  Boy.     Sophie  Swett. 
.    Prairie  Infanta.     Eva     Wilder    B rod- 
head. 

5  How    Bessie    Kept    House.     Amanda    M. 
Douglas. 

6  Mary   Augusta's    Price.     Sophie  Swett. 

7  Face  the  Lions.     M.  R.  Housekeeper. 

8  The  Middleton  Bowl.     Ellen  Douglas  De- 
land. 

9  The  Little  Women  Ceub.     Marion  Ames 
Tag  gar  t. 

10  The  Little  Boy  and  the  Elephant.    Gits- 
tavus  Frankenstein. 

11  Del's  Debt.    Julie  M.  Lippmann. 

12  Helen's  Babies.     John  Habberton. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Shakespeare's  Complete  Works 
altemus'  handy  volume  edition 
Cloth,  35  cents.     Limp  leather,  50  cents. 

1  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

2  Anthony   and   Cleopatra. 

3  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

4  As  You  Like  It. 

5  Comedy  oe  Errors. 

6  Coriolanus. 

7  Cymbeline. 

8  Hamlet. 

9  Julius  Caesar. 

10  King  Henry  IV.   (Part    I.) 
n  King  Henry  IV.  (Part  II.) 

12  King  Henry  V. 

13  King  Henry  VI.   (Part  I.) 

14  King  Henry  VI.   (Part  II.) 

15  King  Henry  VI.  (Part    III.) 

16  King  Henry  VIII. 

17  King  John. 

18  King  Lear. 

19  King  Richard  II. 

20  King  Richard  III. 

21  Love's  Labor  Lost. 

22  Macbeth. 

23  Measure  eor  Measure. 

24  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

25  Othello. 

26  Pericles. 

27  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

28  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

29  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

30  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

31  The  Tempest. 

32  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Shakespeare's   Complete   Works    Continued 

33  The  Winter's  Taee. 

34  Timon  of  Athens. 

35  Titus  Andronicus. 

36  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

37  Twelfth  Night. 

38  Venus  and  Adonis  and  Lucrece. 

39  Sonnets,  Passionate  Pilgrim,  etc. 


Altemus' 
Illustrated  Holly-Tree  Series 

A  series  of  good,  clean  books  for  young 
people,    by    authors    whose    fame    for    de- 
lightful stories  is  world-wide.    Handsomely 
illustrated,  bound  in  full  cloth,  decorated. 
Price,  50  cents. 

1  The  Holly  Tree.     Charles  Dickens. 

2  Then    Marched    the    Brave.      Harriet    7\ 
Comstock. 

2  A  Modern  Cinderella.     Louisa  M.  Alcott. 

4  The     Little     Missionary.       Amanda     M, 
Douglas. 

5  The   Rule  of  Three.     Susan    Coolidge. 

6  Chuggins.     H.  Irving  Hancock. 

7  When    the    British    Came.      Harriet    T. 
Comstock. 

8  Little  Foxes.     Rose  Terry  Cooke. 

9  An  L'nrecorded  Miracle.     Florence  Morse 
Kingsley. 

10  The    Story    Without    an    End.      Sarah 
Austin. 

11  Clover's  Princess.    Amanda  M.  Douglas. 

12  The  Sweet  Story  of  Old.    L.  Haskell. 


Publications  of  Henry  Altemus  Company 

Altemus'  Hand-Books  for  Animal 
Owners 

.The  Cat. 
.The  Dog. 
,The  Horse. 

Cloth,  $1.00  each. 


Worldly  Wisdom   Series 

i  w@rldly   wlsbom   from    shakespeare. 

2  Worldly  Wisdom  from  Benjamix  Frank- 

lin. 

3  Worldly  Wisdom  from  Abraham  Lincoln. 

4  Worldly  Wisbom  from  Emerson. 

Full  Persian  levant  boxed,  $1.00. 


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.Get    Rich    Quick    Wallingford.      By    George. 

Randolph  Chester.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
.How  to  Dress  a  Doll.     By  Mary  H.  Morgan. 

Illuminated   boards,    50c      Illustrated. 
.The   Ifs  of  History.     By  J.  B.   Chamberlin. 

Cloth,  $1.00. 
Iblis  in  Paradise.     By  George  Roe.     Illustra- 
ted, full  Persian  levant,  $1.25. 
The   Bible   as   Good   Reading.     By   Albert   J. 

Beveridge,    U.    S.    Senator    from    Indiana. 

Cloth,  50c;  ooze  calf,  $1.00. 
.Work   and   Habits.     By   Albert   J.    Beveridge, 

U.    S.    Senator   from   Indiana.     Cloth   50c. ; 

ooze  calf,  $1.00. 
.How    to    Invest    Your    Savings.  By    Isaae   F. 

Marcosson.     Illuminated  boards,  50c:  ooze 

calf,  boxed,  $1.00. 
.The  Boy  Geologist.     By  Prof.  E.  J.  Houston. 

Illustrated,  cloth,  S1.00. 


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.The  King's  Daughters'  Year  Book.  By  Mar- 
garet Bottome.  President  of  the  Inter- 
national Order  of  the  King's  Daughters. 
Cloth,  decorated,  $1.25. 

.Crumbs  from  the  King's  Table.  By  Margaret 
Bottome.  President  of  the  International 
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irt.  Illustrations  by  Edward  Potthast. 
i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

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ies Wiggin.  Illustrations  by  Mills  Thomp- 
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:or    G.     Walton.      Illustrated.       i2mo, 

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.History  of  English  Literature.  By  H.  A. 
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boxed,  $8.00  per  set.  4  vol.,  half  calf, 
boxed,  $15.00. 

.Brewer's  Dictionary  of  Phrase  and  Fable. 
By  Rev.  E.  Cobham  Brewer.  Nearly  1,500 
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.The  Age  of  Fable;  or,  Beauties  of  Mythol- 
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.The  Path  of  Evolution,  Through  Ancient 
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Homer  Meyer.     Cloth,  $1.50. 


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.The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic.  By  John 
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Altemus'  Conversation  Dictionaries.  Eng- 
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.Cupid,  The  Surgeon.  By  Herman  Lee  Meader. 
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.Dont's  for  Bachelors  and  Old  Maids.  By 
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.In  Pursuit  of  Prisctlla.  By  B.  S.  Field.  Or- 
namental boards,   50c.;   ooze  calf,  $1.00. 

.The  Watermead  Affair.  By  Robert  Barr. 
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.What  Women  Should  Know.  By  Mrs.  R.  B. 
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.The  Care  of  Children.  By  Elisabeth  R.  Sco- 
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